


our fate cannot be taken from us

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Courtesan, Alternate Universe - Kushiel's Dart, M/M, Political Intrigue, Power Imbalance, lots of explicit sex, major D/s overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 20:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12967722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: In the land of Terre D’Ange, Elua and his Companions left their descendants with one edict:love as thou wilt.Centuries later, the City of Elua flourishes, a city of trade and arts and culture, a bright jewel on a rich continent. The thirteen temples and the Court of the Night Blooming flowers still honor the Companions, of course, but regular manifestations of divine favor have passed from living memory. The gods have moved on, the Queen says, if they ever existed at all. Terre D’Ange murmurs, but the skies remain silent.Rhys knows what he believes. He knows who saved him from the indentured servant market, who brought him home and raised him, who taught him what his own parents hadn’t known - that the bright red mote floating in his left eye means he is god-touched, marked by the angel Kushiel to find pleasure in pain.It’s not that Rhys has ever lacked faith.  It’s just that the gods have never held his heart the way Jack does; and as Jack’s plans for him unfold, as Rhys navigates the Royal Court and eager patrons and an ever-complicating web of loyalties, he struggles to remember the one thing he knows is true:love as thou wilt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The _incredible_ artwork was provided by [Visnomer](http://visnomer.tumblr.com)!
> 
> This AU is based on the Kushiel's Dart series by Jacqueline Carey, and if you like this I recommend checking those out.

_Prelude_

Rhys wraps his arm around his knees, trying to make himself small and unnoticeable amongst the noise and bustle of the market. He buries his face in the crook of his arm, peering out over his elbow at the buyers stepping briskly up and down the line, inspecting the merchandise.

He’s never been to this part of the trade district before. His family has never - _had_ never been wealthy enough to afford even an ordinary servant. Most families in the City of Elua aren’t. Of the debtors - and their children - that end of up on the wrong side of the buyer’s line in the indentured servant’s market, the lucky few are bought by the Court of the Night Blooming Flowers, and brought into the service of Naamah; the rest find themselves filling empty slots on trade ships making the treacherous journey to Tiberium and beyond.

Rhys is only ten years of age, but even he knows that his prospects are not favorable. He’s too young for entry into Naamah’s service, even if any of the Houses would take him as he is. He grips the stump of his right shoulder, digging his fingers in to draw out the phantom pain that still lingers. The accident that had claimed his parents had also taken the limb; the physicians had said he was lucky it hadn’t take his life.

Rhys doesn’t feel lucky. He doesn’t feel lucky at all. He tries to just breathe - in and out, in and out - but it’s hard, and it feels like he hasn’t gotten a clean breath since - since the accident. He would pray to one of the Companions, but which one? He’s too young for Naamah or Eisheth to have an interest, and Cassiel offers only cold comfort. Besides, it’s been ages since angels walked the earth, since the days of Elua - Rhys can’t think what their mercy would look like for him.

The Queen had said the Age of Angels was over, that no one was listening; Rhys doesn’t think she’d take any notice of him down in the indentured servant market, but his learned prayers sound empty and hollow, even inside his own head.

He’s staring into the distance, trying not to think about anything at all, when two pairs of boots come to a stop in front of him. He recognizes Tio’s well-worn but sturdy footwear, but the other pair is far finer than any merchant here can afford.

Rhys’ heart pounds suddenly in his chest. He fears who would even be _interested_ in buying him, unfit for service or labor as he is; but he has no alternatives, so he looks up to see the face of his future.

The man peering down at him is shorter than Tio, but so is almost everyone. He’s clearly nobility, or close to it; his clothes are fine but not quite in the D’Angeline style, not to Rhys’ eyes. He looks Aragonian, dark hair thick and carefully styled, and there’s a faint scar that arcs over his face but what arrests Rhys are his eyes: one blue as the sky, one green as grass, both seeming to peel back the layers of dirt and grime and even Rhys’ skin until he feels exposed, laid bare amidst the hurry and bustle of the indentured servant market.

“This one?” Tio looks between Rhys and the nobleman. “Are you sure, Monsieur? If you are looking for youth I have others -”

The man gestures Rhys over, and at the overseer’s impatient nod Rhys gets to his feet, moving up to the rope line that separates the buyers from the bought. The man leans forward, taking Rhys’ chin in a firm grip and Rhys feels caught, rooted to the ground by this man he’s never met. He turns Rhys’ head from one side to the other, scouring his face for - for what, Rhys doesn’t know.

“Did he come in with this?” the man asks, tapping the brow bone over Rhys’ left eye, and Rhys feels himself flush as Tio nods.

“He didn’t get it here, if that’s what you’re asking. I treat my merchandise better than that.” Tio sounds vaguely insulted, but the man just hums, releasing Rhys’ chin and catching his hand in the same unyielding grip. He unpins the brooch over his heart - it’s a House crest, but one Rhys doesn’t recognize - and before anyone can protest he jabs the pin into Rhys’ thumb.

The sting is sharp and immediate, but it fades almost instantly and Rhys stares transfixed at the single drop of blood that pools on the pad of his thumb, bright and jewel-like in the midday sunlight. He doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing until he looks up - and then the air leaves his lungs in a rush at the look on the man’s face, keen and satisfied and _knowing_ all at once.

“I’ll take him,” the man says, releasing Rhys’ hand and turning back toward Tio, whose frowning countenance brightens at the prospect of a sale. Rhys draws his hand back toward himself, heart pounding in time with the throbbing in his thumb.

“Do you know what this means?” The nobleman says, addressing Rhys directly for the first time. “Your family’s debt is deep; your marque will be a long time to earn back. And until you do, I will own it.”

 _I will own you._ It rings so clearly in the air he might has well have said it aloud.

Rhys doesn’t have any other choices; but more than than, there’s something in this man’s bearing, in the easy confidence in his voice, that draws Rhys closer, and he finds himself stepping over the low rope separating them between one breath and the next.

The nobleman rests a hand heavily on the back of Rhys’ neck and when Rhys looks up he’s smiling, and despite the fact that it’s maybe a little _too_ wide, something in Rhys settles. The invisible band that’s been wrapped around his chest for the last two weeks eases a little, and feels like - it feels like _hope_.


	2. Chapter 2

_Present - nine years later._

The day that Rhys is to be presented at Court dawns bright and clear. A good omen, for those who believe in such things. Rhys supposes that he should, considering what he is, but his relationship with the gods has always been a bit more - pragmatic than some would like. Than _Jack_ would like, in particular.

_You are the living embodiment of Kushiel’s favor_ . Rhys can practically hear his voice now. _Have a little faith._

Faith isn’t the problem - at least, not in the way that Jack thinks. It’s no fault of his upbringing; Rhys is acutely aware that his education has rivaled any scion of the great Houses. He’s had lessons in court etiquette, proper forms of address, the subtleties of dress and station, and so on since the first day he set foot in Jack’s manor. He can recount the history of Terre D’Ange from the current reign back to the days of Elua, and he can calculate the price of fish at the docks from the price of bread in the city. He can speak and read Ilyrian and Aragonian fluently, and can get by in the other continental languages. He can play the lute and the lyre, and he learned the art of pleasing conversation from Dowayne Moxxi herself. He knows the particular prayers and customs for all thirteen Temples of Elua’s Companions.

It’s just that Kushiel, whose favorite he supposedly is, has never spoken to him. None of them have, not even Naamah, whose service he’s finally entering today.

“You’re up early.” A voice breaks his reverie, and he looks over to see Angel watching him with sharp blue eyes. He hadn’t heard her approach; but Jack’s daughter can move quietly when she wants to, and even Rhys, who has been trained to observe and record the world around him, can’t always hear her coming.

“No earlier than you, apparently.” She smiles, folding her hands behind her back and turning to watch the sunrise, gray dress swaying gently with the movement.

“It’s an important day,” she says. “I wanted to make sure you - that you know that I appreciate it.”

It’s only through the familiarity of nearly ten years growing up together that Rhys hears what she almost says instead, and he reaches out and takes one of her hands in his own, squeezing until she looks back at him.

“I want to do this. For you,” he says, hoping that simplicity will pierce whatever guilt Angel might be feeling. “This is what I’m _for_ , Angel - this is what I _am_.”

Angel’s brows pull down, and her grip on his hand suddenly redoubles. Her fingernails dig into his skin and Rhys has to hold back a gasp.

“This may be what the gods have made you,” Angel says, low and serious, and Rhys blinks to refocus. “But it is not all that you _are_.” She releases his hand, and Rhys tries to unobtrusively steady himself against the balustrade.

“What he’s asking you to do -” Angel pauses, choosing her words carefully. “If anyone finds out, I’m not sure even he could save you. You’d be removed from Naamah's Service, at the very least. At the worst -” She pauses again as Rhys shifts uncomfortably.

“I know,” he says, glancing away. “But -”

“But you would never say no to him, would you?” When Rhys looks back Angel’s smile has turned a little sad. She reaches up and draws his head down, pressing a kiss to his forehead, sister to brother.

“ _Love as thou wilt_ ,” she says softly. “I can think of no better blessing to leave you with today.”

Rhys takes her hand as she draws back and presses his lips to the curve of her fingers. It’s a promise and an apology and a _thank you_ all at once; they’ve never spoken of his feelings for Jack, and Rhys supposes he should have known better than to think he could hide them from her. It doesn’t change things - Angel’s blessing or no, Jack still owns Rhys’ marque, and his plans for Rhys have been years in the making. Rhys won’t disrupt that. Not when Jack and Angel have so much at stake.

Angel’s right, after all. There is little Jack could ask that Rhys would refuse.

It’s not that he’s ever lacked faith, Rhys thinks as he watches Angel leave. It’s just that the gods have never held his heart the way Jack does.

* * *

Rhys has been to the palace before, but not like this. He’s traded the simple dress of an apprentice for a draped tunic in cream and gold, skin perfumed with orange blossom and lips touched with color, the barest trace of kohl lining the corners of his eyes. He’s turning heads as he trails a step behind Jack, and as Rhys catches courtiers’ eyes he practices the ghost of a smile before moving on. It’s unusual for a Servant of Naamah to be presented at court, but not unheard of, and Rhys takes note of whom among the glittering crowd takes note of him. A young woman gives him a lingering look and Rhys casts an arch smile her way; she blushes prettily and Rhys feels the beginning curl of anticipation in his stomach.

Despite what Angel had said, this _is_ what he is for. He’s prepared to serve Naamah his whole life - at least, Rhys corrects himself, since Jack had taken him in. He’s spent years apprenticing in the Court of Night Blooming Flowers, learning the subtle arts of allurement and satisfaction, but he’s never been able to put them into practice. Jack had forbidden it, waiting on this day.

Rhys surveys the crowd, suddenly dizzy with the thought that someone among them is going to be the first to buy his service. Will it be the young courtier who can’t seem to stop touching the ornamental rapier at his belt?  Or maybe the matron who sizes him up with keen brown eyes before nodding and turning away. Or maybe the grizzled Duke who can’t stop staring. Or maybe -

A heavy hand settles on the back of his neck, and Rhys finds his breath slowing its frantic pace.

“Easy,” Jack murmurs in his ear, and something in Rhys’ spine relaxes. “Breathe. Can’t have you passing out before the big show.” Rhys leans into Jack’s hand and breathes, slow and deliberate, letting the warmth of Jack’s hand anchor him.

It seems like no time at all before the crowd thins in front of them and a man in a heavy brocade coat announces “ _The Duc de Laurens_.” Jack squeezes the back of Rhys’ neck once before dropping his hand, and Rhys follows him into the clear area before the throne. Jack sketches out an abbreviated bow and Rhys follow suit. When he lifts his eyes again Queen Vallory is watching him with - Rhys can’t quite judge her expression, but he knows that’s not unusual. She’s held the throne for most of Rhys’ lifetime, but he can count on his one hand the number of times he’s seen her smile in public. He supposes it’s possible that she’s less rigid in private, but given the way her gaze is pinning him to the floor like an insect under examination, he doesn’t think he’s likely to find out.

Prince August, though - from the way his gaze sweeps Rhys from head to foot, Rhys might very well have an in there.

“ _Laurens_.” The title is laced with something just this side of disdain, and out of the corner of his eye Rhys sees Jack’s spine stiffen before he relaxes his shoulders. “What brings you out of your corner of the world? ”

Jack’s smile is bright and sharp, and it slices something deep in Rhys’ chest just to see it. “Your Grace.” The honorific sounds false to Rhys’ ears, but Jack’s tone is perfectly correct as he gestures Rhys forward. “May I present to the court Rhys de Laurens, my ward, who on this day enters into the Service of Naamah. ‘As Naamah lay with strangers for coin so that Elua could eat,’ ” Jack recites, straight out of the liturgy, “ ‘ so do her Servants grace us with their service.’ ”

The Queen raises her eyebrows as Rhys settles on his knees at Jack’s side. “And why is he not at the Court of the Night Blooming Flowers?”

Jack holds out one hand without looking away from the Queen and Rhys lifts his arm as he was instructed. The cool grip of Jack’s glove around his wrist is a comfort amidst all the eyes on him.

“Your Grace.” Jack’s voice sounds chiding as he draws a small dagger from his belt, ignoring the sudden attention of the burly guards at the foot of the throne. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize divine favor when you see it.” The hum of the court subsides, eyes turning curiously to the spectacle before the throne. Rhys’ fingers twitch as the tip of the dagger tickles his palm.

Vallory’s thick fingers clench the armrests of the throne and she leans forward before catching herself, settling back. “The gods have no interest in this land any longer,” she says bitingly as the court murmurs.

Rhys can hear the smile in Jack’s voice. “Don’t they?”

The blade biting into his skin is sharp and clean, and Rhys can’t help the way his spine arches as Jack scores a shallow line into his palm. He also can’t help the noise that comes out of him, wanton and _hungry;_ it echoes in the sudden stillness of the court chamber. Rhys tries to get his breathing back under control, opening eyes he doesn’t remember closing to see the Queen watching him with a thunderous expression. Jack drops his wrist and Rhys cradles it to his chest, flexing his hands and savoring the sting. Jack rests a hand on Rhys’ head and Rhys leans into it minutely.

“An _anguiset_ finds pleasure in pain, care in cruelty.” Jack’s voice rings out over the sudden murmur. “Kushiel leaves his mark in the eyes, for those who know to look. For those who _remember_.” Vallory clenches her jaw at the edge in Jack’s voice, but Rhys can see her eyes dart to his, fixing on his left eye, where a fleck of bright red has marred his brown iris since birth.

Kushiel’s Mark, Jack had called it, and the scholars at the Temple had agreed. Unmistakable, especially given the way Rhys had sucked in a breath when the priest had gripped his wrist, watching Rhys’s face carefully as the bones ground together.

“Kushiel’s grace is not easy to bear,” the priest had said, letting go as Rhys bit his lip against a moan. “But it has - compensations.”

Now, Jack’s voice rings out over the pindrop silence in the court. “Kushiel’s favor comes once, perhaps twice in a generation. And now it has come to me.”

“An _anguiset_ who serves Naamah is a blessing that this land has not seen in living memory.” That’s Rhys’ cue to get up, so he does, and only wobbles a little on his feet as he stands. “Anyone wishing to buy his services may submit an inquiry. I’ll be entertaining the first bids this week.”

The court bursts into noise as Jack bows his head just a fraction shy of the proper inclination with a murmured “Your Grace.” He places a hand on the small of Rhys’ back as he turns to leave, and Rhys lets Jack guide him through the throng that parts before them like water.

Rhys can feel Queen Vallory’s eyes on him all the way out.

The Queen is the first monarch who cannot trace her lineage back to one of the Companions; Rhys had been young when she had taken the throne, to young to really pay attention but old enough to remember the edicts that had followed: the gods no longer had an interest in Terre D’Ange. Vallory had a right to the throne because she was strong enough to hold it.

The Companions certainly hadn’t saved Vallory’s predecessor.

Once they’re in the corridor outside the throne room, Jack pulls Rhys aside and takes his hand, unfolding the fingers Rhys had instinctively curled into it.

“It’s fine, it barely bled,” Rhys protests, but Jack is already pulling out a handkerchief and binding it around Rhys’ palm. Rhys’ breath catches as Jack pulls the handkerchief tight - a bit _too_ tight, and as Rhys looks up Jack meets his eyes and winks.

“Come on,” he says, clapping Rhys on the shoulder. “One more stop to make before we go home and start sorting through offers.”

Rhys falls into step behind Jack as he strides down the halls of the palace. Jack never seems to get lost here, and Rhys has never seen him ask for directions, always turning the corners and walking with a sense of purpose.

Jack comes to a stop in the portrait gallery, before a large painting of a woman in royal gold, with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes. Rhys traces the lines of her face with his eyes, the sharp chin and large eyes as familiar as the face he sits across from at dinner every night.

_Queen Alessa_ , the plaque underneath reads. Jack folds his hands behind himself as he contemplates the portrait, but any thoughts he has he keeps to himself.

* * *

The first bid on Rhys’ first night arrives at the estate nearly at the same they do, a red-faced courier on a lathered horse galloping into the front drive as Jack disembarks from the carriage. He takes the proffered envelope, scans the contents, then laughs and passes it to Rhys, who nearly stumbles when he sees the offered sum.

“One - one _thousand_ gold?” Jack had told him he expected high bids, but Rhys had never _dreamed_ -

“You can do better,” Jack says as he climbs the entryway steps, pulling off his gloves. “You _will_ do better - this is an overeager puppy trying to get in before the crowd. Fortunately for _you,_ ” he turns and grins and Rhys follows him up the stairs. “I know your value. Your first time? I won’t accept anything less than ten.”

Rhys isn’t sure what his face does at that, but it makes Jack laugh, and draw him close in a side-armed embrace.

“I know your value,” he repeats into Rhys’ hairline, and Rhys shivers. “And soon they will too.”

Jack lets him go and strides into the house, leaving Rhys staring after him. Rhys looks down at the paper in his hands - one thousand gold pieces is more than Rhys has ever seen in one place - and back up at Jack’s retreating back, and wonders what else Jack knows.

* * *

The days roll on and the letters roll in, and true to Jack’s prediction, one thousand is the _low_ offer. The signs of a Companion’s favor had been few and far between in recent decades - Rhys can’t remember one in his lifetime, not counting himself - and despite the Queen’s clear disapproval, the nobility of Terre D’Ange were clearly willing to pay handsomely for the privilege.

The Queen had never outright forbidden worship of Elua’s companions - to do so would be enormously unpopular, in the city named for Elua himself - but she had certainly made her views known: the gods had abandoned Terre D’Ange, or had lost interest, or perhaps had never existed at all. Vallory’s reign was the first in D’Angeline history to not be ordained by the passing of Siren powers from mother to daughter.

There were no Sirens left, Vallory had said. She held the throne because she was strong enough to take it, and that was all the right she required.

Rhys doesn’t remember the coup - he had been too young, his family too far removed from power and wealth to concern themselves with such things. All he had known was that one day the Queen had been sequestered in childbirth, and the next she had been dead, the child along with her, and there had been a new Queen. He had been sad, as one is for distant figures one barely knows, but he hadn’t expected it would alter the course of his life very much.

Rhys can barely recall that feeling, now, sitting on the other side of Jack’s desk late one evening and sorting through offer letters. The whims of the Queen may very much dictate his future - which is why the choice of the first patron is so important.

Jack leans back in his heavy chair and surveys Rhys over the papers scattered across the burnished wood. “Which would you choose?”

Rhys looks up, startled. “I- I get to choose?”

“No.” Rhys frowns and Jack twists the ring on his finger. “As long as I hold your marque, I will choose your patrons as I see fit. But I am interested in knowing whom you would choose, and why.”

Rhys looks across the papers. There are many to choose from, several even who cross Jack’s threshold of ten thousand gold. Some have poems enclosed, written in flowery script and sweeping language, while others are short and businesslike. One is only three lines long: salutation, offer, and closing. Rhys has to admire that one for the brevity alone. His eyes skim over the titles and seals; perhaps a banker, or a minor landed title…

Rhys looks back up into Jack’s face, and the tightening in his chest tell him there’s only one choice he can make.

Rhys gets up slowly, making sure Jack can see him coming. He rounds the desk, skimming his fingers over the polished wood, using every trick he knows to make his spine supple and his eyes heavy lidded. He slides a knee onto Jack’s chair, and when Jack doesn’t move to stop him, Rhys climbs astride his legs, bracing his hand on the back of the chair and skimming his lips up Jack’s jaw line, around the curve of his ear.

“This is my choice,” Rhys says, trying to keep his voice steady and not let his heart beat out of his chest. Jack is stone still underneath him except for the faint rise and fall of his chest, and Rhys’ stomach starts to sink. But he had to try, didn’t he? Even if he had guessed wrong -

Then a hand fists in Rhys’ hair and pulls his head sharply back, arching his body into Jack’s. His breath flutters and his heart pounds frantically in his chest, and that sharp pain sets every nerve ablaze. Jack skims his teeth up the side of Rhys’ neck and Rhys trembles in his grip, breath coming short and sharp in his lungs.

“As long as your marque belongs to me, I will choose your patrons,” Jack repeats, lips warm and smooth against Rhys’ jaw. “When the debt is paid you may make your own choices.” Jack shifts to stand, using his grip on Rhys’ hair to pull him upright as well. Rhys’ scalp is on fire, and he blinks against wetness in the corners of his eyes.

The Jack lets go, and Rhys gasps, the sudden absence of pain almost as jarring as the initial sting.

“Get some sleep,” Jack says, moving around him to start gathering up papers. “You have lessons in the morning.” It’s a dismissal, clear as daylight, but though his heart is pounding in his ears, Rhys’ blood sings with victory.

His marque may be far from completed, but when it is - when it _is_ -

Rhys takes his leave, but his hand trembles on the bannister as he makes his way up the stairs to his room, and sleep is a distant country, too far too contemplate while his nerves are electrified. His skin tingles, oversensitive against the slide of the sheets, and eventually he rolls on his back, taking himself in hand and stroking slowly as he bites his lip, remembering the sting on his scalp and the warmth of Jack’s chest against his. His release is quick and bright and he comes gasping, with the sense-memory of a hand in his hair.

* * *

Jack selects the Marquis de Vasquez and invites Rhys to sit in on the negotiations.

Monsieur Hugo is the ambitious heir to an old landed family, one with roots as a merchant empire. Although their reach has diminished over the years, they keep their fingers on the pulse of trade, and the young marquis is known for following the tides of the political current. Hugo aligns himself with those he thinks are powerful, and he’s rarely wrong.

A good choice. A solid patron, if Rhys can keep him, and Rhys thinks he has a good chance.

Jack has chosen the chairs in front of the fireplace for this meeting, rather than his desk; he wants this to be a more intimate, personal conversation - and although he hasn’t said it, Rhys thinks that Jack also wants Rhys to be on display in a way that the desk would hide.

So when when Vasquez enters the room Jack is ensconced in one of the overstuffed chairs on the Ilyrian rug, one hand holding a crystal tumbler full of amber liquid, the other resting on Rhys’ head where he kneels next to Jack’s legs.

“Marquis. Welcome.” Jack gestures to the chair opposite himself and Vasquez takes it, but his eyes don’t stray from Rhys’, and they burn with hunger. Rhys gives him a small smile then casts his eyes downward, peeking back up through his lashes.

The Marquis is transfixed, hands tight on the armrests of the chair. A good beginning.

“Your offer was acceptable,” Jack says, and Vasquez jerks his eyes away from Rhys’ face. Jack lifts his hand from Rhys’ head to push a piece of paper across the small table to his right. “These are my terms.”

Vasquez puffs up a little as he takes the paper and skims it. “I should _hope_ it was acceptable, I’m putting down a _lot_ of gold for this -” He frowns at an item on the list in front of him, and looks back at Jack. “No blades?”

“No blades,” Jack says seriously, and Rhys can’t help but feel a little disappointed. “No gags, either, that’s next on the list.”

Vasquez huffs. “No blades, fine - wouldn’t want to mark a pretty thing like him up permanently.” He leers, and Rhys has to fight not to raise his eyebrows. “But why no gags?”

“Because of the last item.” Jack leans forward and taps the paper. “If at any time Rhys says the word _Helios_ , you are to stop, immediately.”

“He’s an _anguiset,_ isn’t he?” Vasquez scowls. “Or was that just fancy words for the Queen?”

Jack’s face darkens for a moment, and then he reaches over and fists his hand in Rhys’ hair, pulling his head sharply back so his spine arches and his neck is laid bare. Rhys makes a hungry little noise, fist clenching on his thigh.

“It’s very simple,” Jack says. “If he says _Helios_ , you stop. This is not a negotiation. If you don’t accept my terms then there are others waiting.”

Jack releases Rhys’ hair and he slumps forward, bracing himself on his arm. When he slants a look at Vasquez through his lashes, the desire writ large on his face tells Rhys that Jack could ask for the stars themselves and Vasquez would try to find a way to say yes.

That’s useful to know.

“And if he says _no?_ ” Vasquez’ voice is slightly hoarse when he looks back at Jack, but Rhys can hear the accession in it.

“That is between you and Rhys,” Jack says, mouth quirking upward. He slides a pen across the side table towards Vasquez. “Sign.”

Vasquez nearly tears the pen out of Jack’s fingers in his haste, and his signature along the bottom of the contract is large and messy. He pulls the pen up with a flourish, then coughs, seeming to collect himself, and puts the pen down carefully in the center of the paper.

“Always a pleasure to do business with you, Laurens,” he says as he stands. Jack collects the signed contract as Vasquez steps over to Rhys and lowers himself on one knee, scooping up Rhys’ hand from the floor. He squeezes Rhys’ fingers tightly - _too_ tightly, and Rhys feels his toes curl.

“And our business will be all pleasure,” he says in what is likely intended to be a seductive tone, but instead sounds over-practiced, as if he had rehearsed in front of a mirror. Rhys lowers his eyes as Vasquez brushes his lips over Rhys’ knuckles, biting the inside of his cheek to maintain his composure.

“I look forward to it,” he says demurely, and is surprised to find that he does, the first curls of anticipation rising in his stomach. He skims Vasquez again as the man rises and turns back to Jack; if Rhys can’t have Jack to himself, this man is no hardship. Overblown and self-confident - very, but the broadness of his shoulders and the strength in his fingers speak to a vague, unsatisfied hunger that has been growing in Rhys, prowling in his belly and given only temporary relief by late nights with his own hand.

The Marquis will do. He will do very well indeed.

* * *

On the appointed evening, Jack sees to him personally, adjusting the fit of his clothing and brushing imaginary threads from his shoulders until Rhys almost wants to slap his hands away.

_Almost_ . But it’s - _confusing_ , the warmth of Jack’s hands against the rising anticipation of someone else’s hands on him, and Rhys wants to be clear headed for this. He wants to get it right.

Finally Jack seems satisfied, handing Rhys personally into Jack’s carriage. He pauses when Rhys would settle back into the cushions, maintaining his grip on Rhys’ hand.

“Remember,” Jack says, low and serious and pitched just for Rhys’ ears. For once no hint of a smile plays about his lips. “Not a word about Angel.”

Rhys nods. This had been the first rule he had learned in Jack’s house, and it’s an old habit by now. As far as the rest of Terre D'Ange knows, Jack Laurens has only one ward; Rhys isn’t about to disappoint Jack now, even in the face of the rising anticipation in his chest.

“I won’t forget,” he says, and Jack squeezes his fingers.

“I know you won’t.” He finally lets go, and Rhys curls his fingers against the familiar loss. Jack steps back and folds his hands behind his back.

“Enjoy yourself,” he says, and winks. “You’ve earned it.” He nods to the driver, and then the carriage pulls away, and Rhys sits back, trying to swallow down the anticipation in his chest.

Jack’s carriage deposits Rhys at the front entrance to the Vasquez estate. In the fading sunlight the place looks well cared for, if a little worn around the edges, but as the door opens and he steps inside he’s almost blinded. He blinks as he crosses the threshold, and as his eyes adjust the initial blur resolves into a grand foyer with a dazzling crystal chandelier, and two sweeping staircases leading up to the second floor. A liveried servant is waiting for him, and Rhys falls into step as he’s directed further down the main hall. A set of double doors swing open on a dining room decked out in green and gold, and Vasquez looks up from what looks like the second course of an elaborate meal.

Vasquez looks up. “Ah, the guest of honor. Leave us,” he says to the servant, who bows and shuts the door behind her on the way out.

Vasquez eyes him and Rhys tries not to shift on his feet; he doesn’t want to betray the nervousness he can feel rising in his gut. Jack had said he would know what to do, but he feels suddenly gangly and awkward in his long brocade coat, unsure where to put his feet or his hand. His fingers come up of their own volition to play with one of the coat fasteners, and Vasquez’ eyes track the movement.

“That’s a very fine coat you have on,” he says, swallowing. He clears his throat. “Take it off.”

Something unkinks in Rhys’ spine and he does as he’s told, undoing the coat and shrugging out of it, catching it before it can fall and laying it carefully over one of the high-backed chairs. Vasquez watches, eyes darkening, as Rhys smooths his hand over the simple white sleeveless tunic he’s wearing, belted with a braided gold rope.

“Attend me,” Vasquez orders, and Rhys’ shoulders relax as he makes his way over. This is more familiar territory. He eyes Vasquez' wine goblet and fetches the pitcher from the sideboard, raising his eyebrows in question and waiting for Vasquez' nod before he pours. He’s barely tipped the pitcher when a sudden hand on the back of his thigh almost makes him drop it; but he steadies himself at the last minute, sneaking a glance over at Vasquez who’s watching him with dark, intent eyes. Vasquez slides his hand up under Rhys’ short tunic and palms his bare ass - he had specifically requested Rhys not wear underthings, and Rhys had obliged. Rhys bites his lip as he fights to maintain a steady hand on the pitcher. Vasquez' hand is large and warm against his skin, and Rhys is startled by the disappointment he feels when Vasquez pulls away as Rhys finishes pouring.

“Very good,” Vasquez purrs, picking up the goblet and taking a sip. Rhys hesitates, but Vasquez continues eating as if nothing had occurred, so Rhys returns the pitcher to the sideboard and waits, folding his hand behind his back.

The meal progresses through the third course, and the fourth, Rhys fetching and carrying dishes from the servants who bring them to the door to the head of the table, laying them out for Vasquez' inspection. He can see the worried glances the servants give him when he lifts platters with one hand, but he’s had almost a decade’s practice with a single arm and he’s not about to let a platter of food get the better of him now. He fetches and carries and refills Vasquez' goblet, and every time he does Vasquez steals a sly caress - fingers skimmed up the inside of his thigh, a warm broad palm on his ass, even a thumb pressed delicately into the cleft between his cheeks. Rhys’ arm had shaken at that, but he had held his composure and not spilled a single drop, although by the time the dessert course arrives Rhys is burning with frustration and about ready to drop to his knees and beg Vasquez to _do_ something, already _._

Vasquez has paid a large sum of money for him, though, and Rhys wants this to be good. Vasquez isn’t shy with his words; if Rhys can impress him, he’ll spread the word and half of Rhys’ work will be done for him. If Vasquez wants Rhys to beg, drawing it out will only make the endgame sweeter - and Rhys wants this to be sweet indeed, for both their sakes.

The dessert dishes have been cleared away and Rhys is pouring an after-dinner drink when a sudden elbow catches him in the side, jostling him enough so he misses the edge of the delicately fluted glass, splashing faintly golden liquor onto the tablecloth. His sudden intake of breath is overshadowed by the sudden screech of Vasquez shoving his chair back. Vasquez crowds against Rhys’ back, hands tight on his hips, and Rhys swallows and puts the decanter aside.

“Oh Rhys, _Rhys_ ,” Vasquez murmurs against his neck, warm and oily. “And you were doing so _well_. That bottle cost more than you do.”

Rhys doubts that. He saw the final figure on Vasquez’ contract.

But he thinks he knows what Vasquez wants, now, so he lets the wings in his stomach rise and turn his voice breathy as he turns his head and says, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Hmm.” Vasquez noses along the curve of Rhys’ neck. “You’ll have to be punished, you know that.”

Rhys heart skips a beat and the tremble in his voice this time is real when he says, “Yes, sir.”

A heavy hand on his back forces him down over the table, raising the short hem of his tunic so his ass is bare. He narrowly misses the decanter, but his arm brushes the crystal flute and it spills, flooding the tablecloth with liquid gold.

Vasquez tuts behind him. “Clumsy. That will earn you extra.” Rhys’ heart is practically pounding out of his chest, and he wonders that Vasquez can’t hear it; he doesn’t know what Vasquez has in store for him, but the anticipation is pulling his stomach taut and stirring heat between his legs.

The first strike across his ass takes him by surprise, startling a breathy whine out of him, and he jolts up on his toes as warmth blooms out from where Vasquez' hand hit his skin. The second blow is on the other side, and by the third Rhys lets the low moan building in his chest spill past his lips.

“That’s it, beautiful,” Vasquez says behind him, breathless. “Let me hear that pretty voice.”

So Rhys obliges him, letting his breath hitch audibly, letting the warmth building in his gut with each strike across his ass spill out in breathy moans and half-sobs. His skin tingles pleasantly, spreading like a comforting rivulet up his spine, and he gets so lost in the impact and rhythm against his flesh that he’s startled out of it when it stops.

Vasquez' fingers press into his overheated flesh, spreading his cheeks apart as Rhys peeks over his shoulder. His cock is thick and heavy between his legs, stiff with arousal, but Vasquez ignores it and presses a thumb against his entrance. Rhys squeaks, cheeks heating and hand clenching in the tablecloth as Vasquez chuckles.

“Have we learned our lesson, then, Rhys? Or do we need to keep going?”

Rhys feels his brows draw down, and for a moment he contemplates answering _no_. The world feels pleasantly muted, but he’s still clear headed, and he’d been enjoying himself. Is Vasquez asking if he wants to stop?

Then Vasquez' hand moves to his belt buckle, and the sudden surge of anticipation in Rhys’ gut clears the doubt out of his mind.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, meeting Vasquez’ eyes, and the pleading tone that enters his voice is entirely genuine. “Yes, I’ve learned my lesson, I’m sorry, sir, _please_.”

“You can call me Hugo,” Vasquez says generously, reaching back to the sideboard for a small vial Rhys has assumed was purely decorative. He uncorks it and coats his fingers, returning them to Rhys’ hole. “In fact,” he says, pressing in, “you can scream it.”

The noise Rhys makes as Hugo breaches him is low and wanton, and his flushed and leaking cock twitches between his legs. Hugo’s fingers are big, bigger than his own, and they stoke the embers in his belly to a raging fire. Vasquez presses in a second, scissoring them apart. The twist presses against a spot inside Rhys that sends lightning up his spine and he jerks against the table.

“ _Please_ ,” he gasps, and the desperation as his hand clenches the tablecloth is real, because he needs _more_ of this. The stretch of Hugo’s fingers is good against the fire on his skin but it’s not _enough_ , and he makes sure to turn his head so Hugo can see the wetness on his lashes. “Please, Hugo, sir, I - I need it, I need _you_ , _please._ ”

“Companions, you beg like a _dream_ ,” Hugo breathes, and Rhys is careful not to let it show but satisfaction blooms warm and large in his chest that he had judged this much correctly. Hugo shifts to pull his fingers out; Rhys whines softly but it turns into a moan as Hugo positions his cock against Rhys’ entrance, warm and blunt and _solid_ in a way that fingers could never be. Rhys finds himself breathing faster and he shifts back as much as he can, pressing his hips back because he _needs_ this; his skin feels hot and his insides are tight and if Hugo would just _move_ already -

Hugo presses in and Rhys’ head drops the table with a moan he’s sure can be heard from the hall - but he hardly cares, not with the way Hugo’s cock fills him up so _good_ , thick and hot and driving him up on his toes with every thrust. Hugo’s fingers dig into his hip bones and Rhys cries out, his cock so hard it _hurts_.

“Please,” he hears himself mumbling like a mantra. “Please, please, please.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, only that even the way Hugo drives over that electric spot with every thrust isn’t _enough_.

“You need more?” Hugo sounds breathless and delighted. “I can give you more.” One of his hands leaves his hips and Rhys is about to growl in disappointment when a stinging _slap_ comes down on the side of his ass and then Rhys _does_ scream, body wringing tight as his cock jerks, painting his release all over the fine tablecloth. Hugo groans, hips grinding into Rhys’ ass as his own cock twitches, releasing hot and thick inside of Rhys.

“ _Elua_ ,” Hugo gasps, peeling his fingers away as his softening cock slips out. He tucks himself back into his clothing, stalking toward the far end of the table, and Rhys lays limp where he was left, attempting to catch his breath and unsure if he should try to stand or if his legs will even hold him. The question is rendered moot when Hugo returns a moment later, draping Rhys’ own coat over him and lifting Rhys into his arms, one arm under his legs and the other wrapped securely around Rhys’ back. It’s - comforting, to be held like this, and Rhys lets himself turn into Hugo’s warm chest and just drift as Hugo carries him through the estate.

He doesn’t remember much about the trip between the dining room and Hugo’s bedroom - if they passed any servants or even what turns Hugo took - but the fog in his head clears somewhat when Hugo shuts the door behind them and sets Rhys gently on his feet.

“Elua _,_ you _are_ a treasure,” he says, tracing a thumb under Rhys’ left eye, where Kushiel’s Mark floats bright and unmistakable. He leans forward and presses his lips to Rhys’ and Rhys hums, leaning into it.

Rhys remembers the rest of the evening in bits and pieces, a few scenes standing out in bold clarity against the comforting tide of pleasure: Hugo stripping the tunic off of him and biting kisses up his chest, leaving the imprints of teeth in his wake; the obscene sounds as Hugo fucks back into him, the way eased by Hugo’s earlier release; the soft scratch of fur against his stomach and cock and the heavy press against his back as Hugo fucks him on the bearskin rug beside the fire; the almost unbearable sweetness of the strain in his neck as Hugo yanks his head back by the hair and bites into Rhys’ neck as he comes.

Rhys comes back to himself a little as Hugo lays heavy against his back, breathing loudly in Rhys’ ear as he catches his breath. Rhys squirms a little to feel the delicious press of Hugo’s weight against him, but Hugo seems to take that the wrong way, rolling off of him and moving to stand, padding naked over the bed and drawing back the covers. He seems to have forgotten Rhys for the moment, and Rhys sits up, feeling suddenly awkward again - is this his cue to go? He reaches hesitantly for his coat, lying abandoned on the floor. Jack’s carriage won’t be back until tomorrow, but he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome -

Hugo looks back and raises an eyebrow. “Leaving so soon?”

Rhys flushes and drops the coat. “I - no, I - I mean, if you want me to I will -”

Hugo strides back over, crouching in front of Rhys. “After tonight, I want to keep you locked in this room forever - but I think your guardian might have something to say about that.” He extends a hand out, and Rhys takes it hesitantly. “But for now, I’ll settle for in my bed until morning.” He flashes a wide grin, but it looks less practiced and more good-humored than his previous expressions. “I did pay for it, after all.”

“That you did.” Rhys feels a matching grin spread over his face and lets Hugo pull him to his feet. “And I would hate to leave you disappointed.”

* * *

Rhys wakes up feeling deliciously stretched and sore and _satiated_ , the quiet hunger burning in his belly muted, for now. He rolls over, ready to greet Hugo with a kiss - or something more - and is met with an empty bed.

Rhys blinks.

“Awake at last,” comes the call from across the room, and Rhys sits up to see Hugo breakfasting at a small table, bathed and dressed and all, apparently while Rhys was still sleeping. Hugo flashes him a grin. “Thought you might sleep the whole day away. As distracting as you are, I do have business to attend to.”

Rhys runs a hand through his hair to buy himself some time. Hugo has some papers spread before him, but he can’t see what they are from here -

Rhys swings his legs over the side of the bed, wrapping the sheet loosely around his hips. He smiles at the way Hugo’s eyes darken as he approaches, and Rhys puts an extra sway in his step just to see the hitch in Hugo’s chest. Hugo reaches out as Rhys comes in range but Rhys sidesteps deftly, running his hand up Hugo’s arm, circling the chair and draping himself over Hugo’s shoulders, his hand skating down Hugo’s chest.

“Surely business can wait a little longer,” he purrs, nipping at Hugo’s ear as his eyes flick over the papers. Contract, itinerary, shipping manifesto - Rhys catches the name of the ship and the destination port and commits it to memory as Hugo’s hand comes up to grip his wrist. “Jack’s carriage won’t be here for another hour at least.”

Hugo’s grip tightens, and Rhys laughs as he’s pulled around to the front of Hugo’s chair.

“You make a compelling point,” Hugo says playfully as Rhys sinks to his knees, hand smoothing up Hugo’s thigh. “Far be it from me to argue.”

* * *

Jack comes to collect Rhys personally. He and Hugo exchange pleasantries, Rhys standing by and trying not to too obviously sway on his feet. He doesn’t miss the way jealousy flits over Hugo’s face when Jack places a hand on the small of Rhys’ back to lead him away, or the way that Hugo stands in the doorway to watch Jack hand Rhys into the carriage. Rhys leans back into the plush seats as the carriage pulls away, eyes closing as a sudden shiver wracks his spine.

“Cold?” Rhys opens his eyes to see Jack watching him intently.

“Just tired,” Rhys says, and Jack snorts. Rhys looks down and picks at the embroidery on his coat. “Although this thing _is_ more fashionable than warm, I suppose.”

Jack huffs, then shifts next to him, shrugging off his greatcoat. He folds it around Rhys’ shoulders, wrapping an arm around Rhys and pulling him against Jack’s side.

“Better?” Jack murmurs into Rhys hair, and Rhys sighs as the warmth of Jack’s body seeps into him.

“Much,” he says, snuggling into the coat and letting the spice of Jack’s cologne settle into his lungs.

He drowses the entire carriage ride back to Jack’s estate, wrapped up in the warmth of Jack’s greatcoat, and he’d be happy to spend the rest of the day in bed - but there’s one more piece of business to take care of before Rhys can escape upstairs.

“ _L’hautain_ ,” Jack says, eyes intent. “Bound for Ilyria. You’re sure?”

“Completely,” Rhys says, curling into the chair before Jack’s desk. He covers a yawn with his hand, snuggling further into Jack’s warm overcoat. Jack hadn’t asked for it back, and Rhys plans to use it as a blanket for as long as possible. “The manifest was in Ilyrian but the vowels had the slant of a D’Angeline native. Hugo -” Jack raises his eyebrows at _Hugo_ and Rhys feels his cheeks heat. “The _Marquis_ is doing business with someone who can bypass the normal export tariffs.”

“Interesting.” Jack leans back in his chair, gaze distant. It _is_ interesting - D’Angeline export tariffs are notoriously high, especially under Queen Vallory, but the events of the last few days are catching up with him and all Rhys wants to see right now is his bed. He yawns again and Jack’s gaze snaps back down.

“Get some rest,” he says, standing and moving around the desk. He lifts the coat off of Rhys and Rhys grumbles at the loss of warmth, but he moves to stand, ready to collapse face first into his sheets. He’s moving slowly, so he’s caught off guard when Jack catches his elbow and pulls him upright.

“Well done,” Jack says. He brushes his lips against Rhys’ forehead, a burning touch there and gone, and Rhys shivers, suddenly more awake. “Better than I even hoped for.”

Jack’s smile - warm and proud and _satisfied_ \- follows Rhys all the way up the stairs and into his room, and as he collapses fully clothed onto the mattress Rhys can still feel his answering smile stretched wide across his face.

* * *

There are any number of artists in the city who could administer Rhys’ marque, but the one Jack takes him to is in the Temple of Naamah.

“They’ll understand,” is all Jack will say on the subject, and Rhys doesn’t press, although he doesn’t understand himself.

The Temple itself is tall and airy, a deceptively simple design in a city that takes pride in ornate architecture. An acolyte welcomes them at the open door and leads them further in, past alcoves filled with candles that cast the arched ceiling in a warm, welcoming light. Gentle music fills the air, and although Rhys looks as they pass doorway after doorway, he cannot locate the source.

The acolyte leads them to a small chamber with a padded table and stool, and the tools of the artist’s trade set out on a small tray nearby. Rhys drifts over as Jack and the acolyte confer, curious. He’d seen the marques grow and fill in on the members of Moxxi’s house, but he’d never seen it done. Pots of ink line the small tray, and below them, a row of needles glinting in the light. He reaches out hesitantly; surely they can’t be as sharp as they look -

“Rhys.” Rhys jerks his hand back. The knowing look on Jack’s face makes him flush, but it’s the acolyte’s faint air of surprise that makes him fidget in place. The acolyte’s eyes flick from the tray of instruments to Rhys’ eyes and recognition dawns.

“Patience,” Jack murmurs, and Rhys folds his hands tightly behind his back.

“We are blessed to serve Kushiel’s chosen.” The acolyte bows, keeping his eyes on Rhys’ face. “I will tell Ilona you’re ready.” He leaves, closing the door gently behind him, and Rhys is left alone with Jack and the tray of sharpened instruments.

“Up on the table,” Jack says, shrugging off his coat, and Rhys levers himself up as Jack sets it aside. He steps forward, into Rhys’ legs and Rhys shift them apart to make room. Jack’s hands settle warm and heavy on his waist and Rhys’ breath catches.

“You won’t need this.” Jack voice is low and sure. His fingers graze Rhys’ sides as he pulls the tunic up and over Rhys’ head, and it’s warm in this small windowless room but Rhys shivers anyway. Jack appears not to notice, stepping back and folding Rhys’ tunic neatly before putting it down. Jack’s hand on his shoulder encourages him to lie down, and when he’s settled on his front Jack’s hand rests heavily on the back of his neck for a moment.

“Relax,” Jack says, amused, and skims his fingers down Rhys’ spine. “This’ll be easier than you think.” The door opens just as Jack lifts his hand away, and Rhys hopes the woman who comes through attributes the flush on his cheeks to the warmth in the room and nothing else.

“Monseiur, messieur. It is my pleasure to be of service.” Ilona is a practical-looking woman closer to Jack’s age than Rhys’, with early strands of grey streaking through dark, pinned-back hair. She nods approvingly when she sees Rhys on the table. “You said the arm, correct?” She runs her hands down Rhys’ arm with the practiced ease of a physician, and Rhys tries not to dwell on how her fingers don’t trail heat behind them like Jack’s do.

“Correct.” Jack’s voice is all business, nothing like the low, private tone from a moment ago. “Start with the outline. This far, and no further.” He hands over a small pouch that _clinks_ as Ilona takes it. She weighs in in her hand thoughtfully, then sets it aside.

“This far,” she says, tracing a circle on Rhys’ upper arm. “We’ll start with this.”

Jack nods and moves away, settling in a chair in the corner of the room. Ilona perches on the stool, pulling the tray of instruments closer and humming as she opens jars and mixes the contents. Rhys watches in fascination as she selects a needle, dipping it first in a clear liquid that smells strongly of alcohol, then in bright blue ink. She pauses, looking up and addressing Rhys directly for the first time.

“In the normal course of events I would offer to numb the skin, but -” her eyes flick and Rhys knows she’s looking at the mote in his left eye “- I suspect you would decline it.”

Rhys has to clear his throat before he can get his voice to work. “Don’t. Please.” Ilona nods and leans in, and Rhys holds his breath.

The first sting of the needle makes him gasp. Ilona tuts at him, so he closes his eyes and tries to stay still. It’s difficult; the easy slide of the needle in and out of his skin sets his body tingling, each pinprick another drop in a slowly boiling sea. When Ilona shifts his arm for a different angle, Rhys opens his eyes to find Jack watching him, and the dark, intent look in his eyes stills Rhys’ breath in his lungs. He feels caught, pinned beneath that gaze, and as the needle pierces his skin again Rhys whimpers, hips jerking against the table.

Ilona huffs in displeasure and draws back. “If you can’t hold still I can give you a sedative,” she says dryly, and Rhys flushes in embarrassment, eyes flicking to her exasperated gaze.

“No need.” Jack stands and circles out of Rhys’ eyesight, and then a hand settles on Rhys’ neck, pressing large and warm and just the wrong side of comfortable. Rhys has to bite back a moan but he feels himself settle immediately, something warm and liquid slipping down his spine.

Ilona makes a politely disbelieving noise but picks up her tools again, and this time the sting of the needle is muted, secondary to the fierce pressure against his neck. Rhys closes his eyes against the heat building inside him, and lets it drag him down.

The next time he opens his eyes Ilona has gone, and Jack is back in the corner chair, paging through a small notebook. Jack looks up as Rhys stirs, and shutting the notebook and tucking it away.

“Back with us?” He says, getting up to come stand by Rhys’ head. He smooths a hand over Rhys’ head and Rhys tries to press into it, but his body feels heavy, like he’s been filled with warm sand, and moving is hard. Jack pulls on Rhys’ eyelid with his thumb, forcing Rhys’ left eye open and peering close. When he lets go Rhys blinks, but even his eyelids feel like stone and he has to struggle to keep them open.

“Ilona has offered you the use of the Temple overnight,” Jack says, taking his hand away. “So you don’t have to go far while you recover. It might be wise to take advantage.”

“No, I -” Rhys shakes his head, trying to clear it. He goes to push himself up and gasps as the flex sets his arm aflame; he twists his shoulder to try to see his new marque, but it’s been wrapped carefully and cleanly, hidden from view. He manages to shift over on his back, grunting as his shoulder hits the table again, sending delicious pinpricks shooting through his arm.

“I want.” He clears his throat and tries again as Jack’s face comes into view, looking amused. “I want to go home,” he says, locking eyes with Jack. “Please.”

Jack’s eyes seem to darken, although that might be a trick of the light, and his grin is small but satisfied. “Then we’ll go home.” He slides a hand under Rhys’ back and helps him sit, giving him a moment for the room to stop spinning before he helps him slide off the table. Rhys stares hopelessly at his folded tunic; he dresses himself every day but suddenly the mechanics of getting the tunic unfolded and over his head are far beyond him.

Jack seems to sense his trouble, because he sweeps the cloak off of his shoulders and around Rhys’. He fastens it around Rhys’ neck and Rhys closes his eyes and sways as the ties draw tight.

“Come on.” Jack sounds amused, tucking Rhys’ arm into his elbow. “Let’s go home.”

The walk out of the Temple seems to take years, and Rhys concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s very good that Jack knows where they’re going, because Rhys would be hard pressed to say in which direction the entrance lies, let alone what turns to take to get there. He’s vaguely aware of the priests of Naamah watching them carefully - there seem to be more of them on the way out than there were on the way in - and when Jack finally hands him into the carriage, Rhys sinks back into the cushions with a sigh of relief. He must fall asleep almost immediately, because the next thing he remembers is being gently shaken awake and looking out the window at Jack’s estate. He lets Jack guide him inside and upstairs to his bed, curling up around his freshly marked arm and savoring the soreness all over again. He’s asleep almost before Jack shuts the door behind him, so the gentle press of lips against his temple must be part of the dream.

Rhys dreams of his marque, but this time it’s Jack doing the work, sitting heavily astride his back as Rhys lays on the table in the Temple. Rhys lays still and lets Jack’s hand work the needle over his skin, deft and sure in a design that Rhys can’t discern. The sting of the needle is sharp and pleasant even in the dream. When Jack is finished he presses his hand _hard_ against the design freshly etched in Rhys’ skin, and the pleasure is so sharp and shocking that Rhys wakes gasping. He lays still among the soiled sheets, catching his breath and waiting for his heartbeat to settle, still exhausted but clear-headed for the first time since he’d seen the artist’ tools laid out sharp and tempting.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The months that follow are - incredible. Intoxicating. Rhys has grown up a shadow at Jack’s side, unremarked upon except for the occasional sidelong glance. Now murmurs follow him every time he visits court, and Rhys preens at the admiring glances he draws and the offer letters that arrive daily at Jack’s estate. Rhys has his choice of patrons - or rather, Jack does, and Jack chooses with care, sending Rhys to nobles and merchants and foreigners alike: anyone with wealth or influence enough to serve Jack’s interests.

Rhys visits the Marquess d’Iver three times over the course of one month. The Marquess likes it when Rhys uses his mouth, and Rhys is happy to practice those skills, enjoying the sensation of heels digging into his back. He’s also happy to bring back to Jack the information that the Marquess’ late husband - lost three years ago at sea, but the Marquess seems in no hurry to replace him - had been relieved of his position as Commander of the Royal Guard by the Prince himself, and that August had been administering that position personally in recent years.

The heir to the Chaisson mercantile empire hires Rhys’ services for several consecutive days out at a country house, tying Rhys’ arm to the headboard and taking his frustration at the loss of his biggest customer out on Rhys’ back. His belt is fine leather and has a bite that Rhys adores, sobbing into the pillow with each strike against his flesh. Rhys runs his fingers over it later, draped over Rhenard’s chest. Imported, he tells Rhys proudly. The Royal Family are favorite customers.

Rhys takes up with the Ilyrian ambassador for two pleasurable weeks, long enough to learn that the ambassador likes to use rope and that the Ilyrian Consilio is pushing for decreased trade restrictions, by any means necessary. The ambassador leaves him bound and kneeling while she writes a missive, but forgets to seal it when Rhys rubs his cheek against her hip. She keeps him on his knees for the rest of the evening as punishment for the interruption, but when Rhys ghosts over to her desk in the dead of night the letter remains unsealed, and Rhys commits the names and dates in flowing Ilyrian script to memory.

Rhys’ most frequent patron, though, and the most generous with his time and attention, is Hugo Vasquez - the Marquis loves to show Rhys off, taking him for long drives in the park and to the theater and to expensive restaurants where he hand-feeds Rhys delicacies from all over the continent. It would be endearing if it weren’t so - _exaggerated_ , as if Hugo is determined to outdo even the royal family in extravagance. Nevertheless, Rhys can’t say he minds the attention, not when Hugo’s hand on the back of his neck tightens in the middle of a carriage ride, guiding him down to where Hugo is unbuckling his belt, or when Hugo scatters long-stemmed roses - complete with thorns - on his bed and fucks Rhys on them, until the prick of thorns against his back and the stretch of Hugo’s cock _does_ have Rhys screaming his name.

There’s pleasure in doing something well, and Rhys does very well with pleasure; learning his patrons habit and desires and leaving them satisfied is well enough, but it never really feels _complete_ until Rhys returns home, to Jack, to share what he’s learned and watch Jack’s eyes gleam with approval. Not everything he learns has equal value, of course - the knowledge that the Tiberian trade delegate has a weakness for Ilyrian cocoa is perhaps not immediately thrilling - but Jack seems interested in everything Rhys brings back, so Rhys brings back as much as he can.

The court has grown fond of Rhys, and he of them; offer letters will come periodically to the estate, occasionally addressed to Rhys but more often to Jack. Rhys rarely sees them, preferring to let Jack negotiate the terms. He spends what little free time he has tending to his wardrobe, or catching up on his reading in Jack’s extensive library.

“Rhys? Are you in here?” Angel’s voice echoes between the stacks, and Rhys closes his book and uncurls himself from the window seat.

“Here,” he calls, smiling as Angel rounds a shelf and comes into view. “Did Jack finally let you out?”

“For today,” she says, but her answering smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You know, you should be in there too. I could ask him if you don’t want to -”

“It’s fine.” Rhys rolls his eyes when Angel doesn’t look convinced. “It _is_ . Jack doesn’t want me to know - whatever it is that you all discuss for hours on end, so it’s probably better if I don’t know.” Jack had introduced them as “old friends,” but the way Wilhelm Sauer and Athena Springs carry themselves says _soldier_ to Rhys. He’s not sure about Nisha Kadam - she has the same edge of contained violence that the other two do, but the familiar - _extremely_ familiar - way she had greeted Jack had left Rhys feeling suddenly uncertain, as if the ground under his feet was no longer quite stable.

“I wish I had your faith in him,” Angel murmurs, and Rhys shrugs uncomfortably, looking aside.

It’s not - it’s not _faith_ exactly, what Rhys feels for Jack. Faith implies the possibility of doubt, and Rhys just - doesn’t doubt Jack. If Jack doesn’t want him in the room while he and Angel and Monsieur Sauer and Mesdames Kadam and Springs confer for hours in Jack’s study, then Rhys doesn’t want to be there. What he doesn’t know, he can’t accidentally let slip.

Rhys has his suspicions. But until and unless things change, he doesn’t see a reason to disobey Jack’s wishes in this.

Rhys looks back at Angel. “Is that what you came to ask me?”

“No.” Angel holds out a sealed envelope. “I came to give you this.”

Rhys takes it. The envelope is plain but clearly of expensive stock, unadorned except for his name in scrawling script across the front. Rhys turns it over and nearly drops the envelope when he sees the seal on the back. He raises his eyes to Angel’s and she nods grimly.

“My father hasn’t seen it yet. If you don’t - if you’d like, I can make it disappear.”

“ _No_.” Rhys pulls the envelope closer to his body, as if to prevent her from taking it back.  She purses her lips together but folds her hands together behind her back, and Rhys glances down again at the envelope, running his thumb over the Prince’s seal.

Rhys has served all manner of noble and wealthy D’Angeline, but he’s never received a summons from the Royal House. Until now.

* * *

The Prince’s quarters are lavish, as Rhys would expect. The sitting room he’s shown to is draped in purple and gold, and Rhys practically sinks into the carpet as he steps in. He flexes his foot in his thin slippers against it for a moment; the carpet can’t be more than a couple of years old, still plush under his feet, and the furniture looks lived in but not _generations_ worth of lived in. This is the first time he’s been in a royal apartment; Rhys wonders if Vallory had purged the furniture the way she had Queen Alessa's supporters.

The room is also missing one very important piece, which is the Prince himself.

Rhys hesitates as the servant slips out, shutting the door behind herself. Alone in the Prince’s quarters; who knows what he might be able to glean from a quick look through August’s desk, or his journals -

No. This is too valuable a connection to risk without more information about August's habits and practices. If he locks his desk drawers, and where he keeps the key. If he’s the kind who thinks gossip passes for pillow talk. How deeply he sleeps. That sort of thing.

Rhys also doesn’t know when August will arrive back at his quarters. The Prince is probably just late.

Rhys folds his arm behind his back to avoid temptation as he crosses the sitting room, passing the - locked, Rhys can see it now - rolltop desk and looking out across the small balcony into the walled-in garden below. It’s small but well-cared for, and - Rhys raises an eyebrow - appears to have a pair of training dummies in the far corner. They have clearly seen some use, and Rhys is reminded that Prince August has a reputation as a brawler.

His thoughts are interrupted when the door to the suite slams open.

Rhys turns to see the Prince scowling as he tugs off his gloves and kicks the door shut behind him. He’s clearly in a temper - but the other thing Rhys recalls is that August is rarely far from one - and so Rhys follows his instincts and starts to kneel.

“Don’t,” August snaps, striding forward and tossing his gloves on a couch. “I see enough of that at Court.” Rhys wobbles, surprised, but he manages to catch himself and stand just as the Prince comes to a stop in front of him. They’re about of a height, which Rhys finds faintly surprising; even Jack, who towers in Rhys’ imagination, doesn’t stand quite as tall as Rhys when he straightens.

August eyes him, searching Rhys’ face with a furrowed brow and downturned mouth. He reaches out and pulls the skin around Rhys’ left eye taut with his thumb, and Rhys knows he’s looking at the mote floating bright and red and damning.

Then August lets go and slaps Rhys hard across the face.

Rhys gasps, stumbling back a step as his entire body flushes. His face stings, and his breath comes faster as his hand comes up to trace the mark he can feel forming on his cheek.

August is watching him intently, eyes dropping to Rhys’ parted lips. This is normally where Rhys would drop to his knees, but August has told him not to, so Rhys lets his fingers trail across his lower lip as he straightens, matching the Prince stare for stare.

August snorts. “They teach you that in Madame Moxxi’s house?”

Rhys raises an eyebrow but lets the grin he can feel forming slip across his face. “I learned from the best.”

“Hm.” Something in August’s spine relaxes, and he grins a little in return, seeming to shake off whatever foul mood had chased him into the room. “Let’s see what else you’ve learned.” His hands go to his belt; this is more familiar, and Rhys steps forward, laying his hand over one of August’s.

“Allow me,” he murmurs against the Prince’s lips, and August inhales. This time when Rhys sinks to his knees August doesn’t stop him.

It had taken some practice to learn to undo a belt one-handed; Rhys’ solution was to use his mouth, and August’s startled curse above him as Rhys nuzzles close and pulls back the thick leather - Ilyrian, imported, Rhys notes, putting the observation aside for later - with his teeth tells Rhys that the skill is well learned. August seems to like it when he’s aggressive, so Rhys doesn’t waste any time getting his mouth on the Prince’s cock.

August groans as Rhys takes him in; still mostly soft, but that’s not a bad way to begin. It means Rhys can fit more of August in his mouth at once, tongue pressing to the underside as the Prince’s cock starts to swell. He glances up from beneath his lashes, and August is watching him intently, one hand coming up to gently rest against Rhys’ head, as if asking permission. It’s a strangely sweet gesture after the earlier posturing, and Rhys leans into it as much as he can, humming encouragement.

“What if I said that’s all the slick you’re going to get?” August says, fingers threading through Rhys’ hair. It sounds like he really want an answer, so Rhys pulls off with a wet sound and looks up.

“I would scream for you,” Rhys says huskily, letting the heat August’s words stoke in him infuse his voice. “Is that what you want, your highness?” August’s eyes tighten and Rhys corrects himself. “August.”

“What I want,” August growls, “is for you to finish what you started.” His hand tightens in Rhys’ hair and Rhys sighs happily, leaning back in.

August does stretch him, but it’s quick and perfunctory, bent over the Prince’s bed, and Rhys moans loud and desperate as August fucks into him with short, quick thrusts. It’s just this side of not slick enough, and Rhys’ toes curl in the over-plush carpet at the burn. August holds him down with a hand on the small of his back, snapping at him to hold still when Rhys tries to twist to get his arm underneath him. Rhys sinks his teeth into his lower lip at the off-hand tone of command, spreading his legs wider. It’s something most of his patrons attempt, with varying levels of success; of course Rhys gives the same deferential treatment to all, but few of his patrons have the _bite_ to their commands that sends shivers up his spine. Hugo can get there, sometimes, although he’s easily distracted. August sounds like he has potential.

Jack does it without even trying, of course, but Rhys tries not to think about Jack while he’s with his patrons.

August’s fingers digging into his thigh brings him back to the moment. August lifts Rhys’ leg up onto the bed, leaving him hanging over the edge with the other foot barely brushing the floor. He feels off-balance, unable to push back and his whole body shudders as August pins him down and fucks him. He’s close, hips rubbing against the silky coverlet and the tension building in his gut when August pulls out.

Rhys whips his head around, a protest on his lips, but August’s hand is firmly planted on his back and he can’t move. August has his cock in hand, stroking quickly with a look of intense concentration. Rhys closes his eyes, mouth falling open as the Prince’s release stripes his overheated skin, August’s groan echoing Rhys’ desperate moan.

“Damn,” August says breathlessly. “Hugo was right about you.” Rhys shivers; between the Prince’s words and the fingers skating through the release cooling on his skin he’s _so_ close _,_ he’s almost there -

August reaches between Rhys’ legs and palms Rhys’ cock, pressing down on his back when Rhys jumps, and Rhys comes with a moan, shaking apart between the Prince’s hands.

August lets him lay there for a moment, then catches his other leg and heaves him up fully on to the bed. Rhys bounces awkwardly and then rolls to make room for the Prince as he climbs up after him. It’s the work of a moment to crawl beneath the covers; it’s early still, but the sweat is cooling on Rhys’ skin and he’d much rather curl up next to August’s warmth than face the rest of the world right now. August settles an arm hesitantly around his back when Rhys drapes himself halfway over the Prince’s chest, as if he’s unused to companionship in his own bed.

Now that Rhys thinks about it, he can’t recall the Prince being known for romantic entanglements. He had always assumed the Prince’s partners knew how to keep a secret; perhaps the truth is more simple.

“I don’t know if I believe what you are,” August says abruptly just as Rhys is slipping into a satisfied doze. His blinks and props himself up on August’s chest, but the Prince is staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t add anything, but the air takes on a heavy, expectant weight.

“Does it matter?” Rhys says eventually. He has to tread lightly; the wrong word could get him sent away without a return invitation.

August looks back at him, brows pulled together in a frown. “Does it - of course it _matters_ . Do you think I’d openly defy my mother if it didn’t _matter_?”

Rhys catches his breath, August’s earlier mood cast in a new light. “You argued with the Queen about me.”

“We argue about everything. Don’t let it go to your head.” Rhys tries not to, but it does stroke his ego a little. “I can’t go two feet in this court without hearing someone sing your praises. Did you know the Marquis de Vasquez contracts for you every time he needs a deal to go through? Says you bring him good luck.”

Rhys does, but there’s no point in admitting to it. “Oh?” Rhys rests his chin on his hand and smiles down at August. “And what else does the Marquis say about me?”

“That you’re the sweetest piece of ass he’s ever had.” Rhys laughs and August chuckles along with him.

“And you? What piece of luck are you hoping to get from this?” Rhys asks lightly. August falls silent, his gaze going distant, and Rhys wonders if he’s pushed too far.

Then August blows out a breath, and tugs Rhys back down next to him. “Nothing. We can talk about it later. Next time,” he amends, and Rhys smiles into the curve of August’s neck, pressing their bodies together.

_Next time_.

* * *

Rhys wakes up the next morning to August’s hard length grinding against his ass, and as he surfaces from sleep he turns into the Prince’s arms with a smile. It’s slow, unhurried, and when Rhys comes it’s with August’s entire weight pressed against his back, holding him in place with long, lazy thrusts. It’s the best morning he’s had with a patron in a while, deliciously sore in all the right places and still loose-limbed from sleep, and Rhys lets himself drift on a cloud of contentment while August holds him down and fucks into him. August bites down on Rhys’ shoulder as his own release catches up to him, and Rhys shivers, toes curling.

Rhys would be pleased to pass the entire day that way, making thorough use of the well-appointed bed, but August _is_ the Prince and after he catches his breath, forehead resting against Rhys’ shoulder, he rolls away, making vague noises about bathing and getting dressed, and Rhys knows an ideal exit when he sees one.

August seems gratifyingly reluctant to let him go. “Are you sure you want to go like that? You’re all -” He gestures, taking in Rhys’ disheveled hair and the bite marks littering his neck.

“It’s fine,” Rhys says, sliding from the bed and reaching for his clothing. He can still feel the sweat and other fluids drying on his skin, and a bath sounds lovely, but - better to leave August wanting more. He smiles as he fastens his belt, turning back to the bed where August’s watching him with a faint frown. “Besides - word will be already circulating about where I spent the night. You want them to know I had a good time, don’t you?” August’s mouth pulls up seemingly despite himself, and he drops back into the pillows.

“If you’re sure,” he says, and Rhys smiles to himself at the note of pride in there.

He leaves August with a lingering kiss; August catches Rhys’ lower lip in his teeth in a way that has Rhys seriously reconsidering his decision to leave, but eventually he draws away, leaving the Prince to doze in his bed. Jack’s carriage will be waiting for him down in the courtyard, and he’ll be eager to hear Rhys’ report. The bedroom door is still open so Rhys doesn’t pause by August’s desk on the way out; there will be time for that later. Rhys is practically guaranteed a return invitation - he’d bet everything he’s paid toward his marque on it.

He steps out into the hallway, shutting the door gently behind him, and runs a hand through his hair for the little good that will do. There’s value in being seen, as he had told August, but that doesn’t mean Rhys doesn’t have his pride.

The march of approaching footsteps - quite a few of them, from the sound of it - jars him out of the dreamy contemplative state that had followed him since he woke, and as her retinue turns the corner Rhys finds himself face to face with the Queen.

Rhys freezes. Vallory doesn’t like him, he knows it; she hasn’t outright banned him at Court, but she’s made no secret that she disapproves of him. It’s nothing so simple as a Servant of Naamah at the palace; he’s far from the only one who takes his trade outside of the Court of the Night Blooming Flowers. Jack says that it’s because Rhys represents the old ways Vallory is trying to move Terre D’Ange away from, and that may be true; but as Vallory narrows her eyes and steps forward past her guard Rhys is struck by the sudden conviction that it’s more than that.

Nevertheless, she is the Queen, and Rhys is nothing if not trained properly, so as she approaches Rhys bows, keeping his eyes low, and waits for her permission to rise. Her jeweled slippers come into view and pause, and Rhys holds his breath.

“Look at me,” she snaps, and that’s unorthodox but close enough to permission so Rhys straightens, keeping his chin tucked low and meeting her eyes through his lashes. The Queen’s mouth is pressed flat in an unforgiving line, her eyes cold.

Rhys knows better than to try to explain himself. There’s no hiding whose room he just came out of, no disguising what he looks like, but he’s still suddenly acutely aware of August’s sweat on his skin, of the disheveled state of his hair. He keeps silent, and awaits her judgement.

“If I had my way you’d be strung up in the square,” she says without preamble. “And _not_ in a way that you’d enjoy.” Rhys blinks. That’s a little more _blunt_ than he’s used to from the nobility; but then again, Queen Vallory is not known for subtlety.

“But I won’t deny my son his amusements,” she continues, stepping past him to push open the door Rhys had just come out of, and Rhys is suddenly immensely relieved he had elected to leave when he had. “As long as amusing is _all_ that you are.”

There’s no safe answer to that except “Yes, Your Grace.” Rhys casts his eyes demurely downward, and Vallory snorts.

“Do something for me,” she says, pausing in the doorway. “Tell Laurens - _remind_ him that what he doesn’t keep close, he tends to lose.” With that she sails inside, letting the door swing shut behind her, and her guard takes up position in front of it - conspicuously _between_ Rhys and the royal apartment.

There’s a crash and the sudden swell of raised voices inside, and Rhys decides it’s long past time for him to leave.

Rhys is good at reading between the lines; it’s what he’s been trained to do, to observe, record, and infer. It’s not Rhys and what he represents that set that line of frost in the Queen’s voice.

Or rather, it’s not _what_ , but _whom._

* * *

“Of course she loathes me,” Jack says, pouring himself a glass of amber whiskey. “The feeling’s mutual. But what did she _say_?”

Jack hadn’t been available when Rhys had gotten home. Unusual, after one of Rhys’ assignations; but less so, these days, with all the time he spends closeted in his study with Angel and the others. So Rhys had had time to bathe - for which he’s grateful; it’s one thing to face down the Queen covered in her son’s sweat, and quite another to face _Jack_ \- and dress, and consider.

Now, freshly scrubbed and curled up in one of the chairs in Jack’s study, Rhys wraps his arm around his knees and chooses his words with care.

“She said ‘remind Laurens that what he doesn’t keep close, he tends to lose,’” he says softly, and Jack stops pouring.

Jack’s knuckles whiten, and he sets the decanter down very carefully. Rhys sits very still.

Jack’s shoulders tighten, and for a moment Rhys thinks he’s going to throw the glass across the room, whiskey and all, but then he laughs bitterly, tossing back the glass in one swallow.

“She would know, wouldn’t she,” he says, pouring himself another, and Rhys bites his lip before continuing.

“She meant me,” he says slowly, and Jack snorts as he sets the decanter down again, turning to face Rhys with a look on his face that says _obviously_. It warms something in Rhys’ chest at Jack’s ready acknowledgement that Rhys is something he would regret losing, and he tucks it away to savor later. “But she also meant Queen Alessa.”

Jack pauses again with the glass halfway to his mouth, eyes intent on Rhys. Rhys holds his breath; he’s never pressed Jack about Angel’s mother, or about the way Jack walks the palace with an intimate familiarity.

Rhys would face down Queen Vallory a hundred times over for Jack. But he needs information to do his job; they’re getting to a point where guesswork will only get him so far, and a mistake could undo everything.

For a long moment Rhys thinks Jack’s not going to answer; then Jack sets his glass aside and leans back against the side table, hands gripping the edges. His knuckles are still white.

“It’s not exactly a secret,” he says, and Rhys lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “But it’s not common knowledge, either.”

“D’Angeline nobility takes its bloodlines very seriously,” Jack says, and Rhys nods. He knows; he’s had to memorize all of them. “We never could have been married; Alessa never _wanted_ to be married. She wasn’t interested in sharing the throne, she said. Only her bed.” He bares his teeth at the memory, and Rhys holds his breath, afraid that a stray noise would interrupt Jack, close him off again.

“She didn’t even tell me she was with child,” Jack says bitterly. “Just made me a Duc and then sent me away to the embassy in Aragonia. An entire court full of so-called nobility and no one _told me_ .” Jack’s fingers dig into the lip of the table. “I came back a month early. I wanted to surprise her.” Jack laughs bitterly. “Imagine _my_ surprise when I found the palace in the middle of a blasted _coup_.”

“It was easy to slip in during the chaos,” Jack’s gaze is far, far away. Rhys is barely breathing. “The official story is close enough to the truth; the Queen died in childbirth.” Jack’s gaze drifts down and locks with Rhys’. “Her daughter didn’t.”

“It was all I could do to get Angel out of there. I didn’t have an army; not then,” he says, and Rhys thinks about the hours Jack spends with Wilhelm and Nisha and Athena, about the funds that Rhys’ work brings in. Jack grins, and Rhys has never seen anything so vicious, so _hungry_ before in his life. “But I do now.”

He crosses the short distance between them and crouches in front of Rhys’ chair, taking Rhys’ hand in both of his.

“And you’ve made it all possible, sweetheart,” he says, and Rhys’ heart skips a beat at the endearment. “I always knew I was meant to put Angel on her mother’s throne, to help her rule the way Alessa never would. I just didn’t know _how_ until I found you.”

“ _Love as thou wilt_ ,” Jack says, lifting Rhys’ fingers to his lips, branding a kiss across Rhys’ knuckles. “Alessa used to say that. I took it to heart.”

Rhys’ fingers tighten on Jack’s. When Jack lifts his eyes again they _burn_ , and Rhys has never known how to say no to that; has never wanted to.

* * *

“You’re in a good mood,” Angel says as she slides in next to him on the window seat. Rhys puts his book down and makes room for her. He hadn’t really been reading it anyway; but staring blankly at pages raised fewer eyebrows than staring off into the distance. He’s had a lot to think about, lately, and the library is usually a good place to remain hidden.

Usually. Angel always seems to know where to find him; maybe Rhys should work on becoming less predictable.

“Am I?” he says, realizing as he says it that a smile is pulling up the corner of his lips.

“You are. You always are, when you come home from seeing _him_.” There’s no doubt who she means; August is by far Rhys’ most elevated patron, but somehow Rhys doesn’t think Angel’s referring to his rank.

“August is - nice,” Rhys tries. Angel makes a disbelieving noise and Rhys laughs. “All right, all right - he’s not _nice_. I probably wouldn’t like him so much if he was,” he says jokingly, but Angel sobers.

“How much _do_ you like him?” She asks seriously, and Rhys sighs, looking down and fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He’d been hoping to avoid this conversation.

“Enough that I want to ask him to leave before - _before_. I won’t,” he rushes to assure her, but Angel’s face is impassive. “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t betray Jack like that.”

“ _Like that_ ,” Angel repeats, folding her hands in her lap. “You wouldn’t betray him _like that_ ,” she says, and Rhys goes cold.

Rhys feels sick. “I -” _I wouldn’t, how could you even think that, I wouldn’t -_

“I understand he told you about my mother,” Angel says, and Rhys nods, bewildered, helplessly swept along in the tide of this conversation. “I imagine he told you the same story he told me: out of the country while the Queen was with child, returning just in time to save me, ready to restore me to my rightful place when I came of age. Paints him as quite the hero, doesn’t it?”

Rhys blinks. “Are -” he stops, but he can’t make this conversation make any sense. “What are you saying?”

Angel shrugs. “Only that there’s no one left to contradict him. It doesn’t matter now, not really,” but Rhys is almost certain that it _does_ , to Angel. “Things are moving. It won’t be long now. Just -” she takes his hand in hers. “If you had to choose. If you _had_ to,” she says over Rhys’ protest. “Who would it be?”

She isn’t talking about August anymore.

Rhys feels sick with disbelief, but there’s only one answer he can give; there’s only _ever_ been one answer, and he knows Angel can read it off his face.

“Don’t,” he whispers, pressing her fingers in his. “Angel. _Please._ ”

Angel smiles sadly, as if this is no more than she expected. “Can I ask you not to mention this conversation, at the least?”

Rhys swallows.

“If you don’t tell me anything, there won’t be anything to tell,” he whispers, gripping her fingers as if she’s a lifeline; but it doesn’t feel like there’s anything here that will save him, not anymore.

“Sometimes we have to save ourselves,” she says, and Rhys blinks to hear her thoughts echo his own so closely. She leans closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and he closes his eyes, letting the simple intimacy wash over him.

When he opens his eyes Angel is watching him, and her eyes have always been very blue but they’ve never been so _bright_ as they are right now.

“Dinner will be served shortly,” Angel says, squeezing his fingers before she rises. “I’ll see you downstairs.

* * *

The muffled _clink_ of coins draws Rhys out of a pleasant dream and he frowns, curling further into the bedclothes in an attempt to recapture it. There’s a snort, and then a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Rhys scowls blearily up at - at August, fully dressed and leaning over him, and as the Prince’s face resolves Rhys scrambles for consciousness.

“You don’t have to get get up,” August says as Rhys props himself up. He nudges a bag on the bedside table. “I just wanted to make sure you saw this. It’s yours,” he clarifies as Rhys blinks at it.

Rhys sits up. “You already negotiated a price with Jack, there’s no need to -”

“I know,” August interrupts. He shakes his head. “Believe me, I know. This is for you - for this,” he says, skating his fingers down Rhys’ arm to where his marque ends, incomplete. Rhys skin pebbles under the Prince’s touch, but it’s secondary to the sudden breathlessness in his lungs. He reaches out hesitantly, waiting for August’s impatient nod before he pick the bag up and hefts it in his hand.

It’s heavy. Heavier than it looks, and unless it’s filled with rocks - there’s enough here to pay the rest of his marque, easily.

Rhys looks back at August, but for once his practiced words fail him. He’s a year, maybe more away from completing his marque, assuming things continue as they are; for August to gift him with the _balance_ \- it’s beyond impolite to ask _why_ , but it’s on the tip of Rhys’ tongue to do it anyway.

August must be able to read it off his face, because he shifts his gaze somewhere over Rhys’ left shoulder, hand rubbing at the side of his face. “I know something about - complicated loyalties,” he says slowly. “And since we are, in a very small way - since I - I’m in a position to uncomplicate yours a little,” he says in a rush. “And I want to. So I am.”

August’s gaze finally slides back to his, sincere and completely lacking in guile, and the realization that August is _serious_ hits Rhys somewhere deep in the chest. He puts the bag carefully back down on the table and sits up further, seizing August’s tunic and pulling him down so Rhys can press their lips together, slow and gentle and between friends.

“Thank you,” Rhys says when they break apart, and he hopes August can hear the sincerity in it.

“You’re welcome,” August replies, just as serious, then he clears his throat and straightens, smoothing a hand over his tunic as Rhys lets go. “Just don’t - just keep it to yourself, all right? Can’t let word get around that I have a favorite or anything.”

“Of course not,” Rhys murmurs, smiling.

“Yes. Well.” August clears his throat again, then waves a hand as Rhys goes to slide out of bed. “I told you, you don’t have to get up. I have to catch Captain Roque before she completely redoes the guard rotation - “ he catches himself as Rhys blinks politely. “Which I’m sure you don’t care about. Sorry. Stay as long as you like.” He reaches out and catches Rhys’ wrist, turning it over and rubbing a thumb along the tender skin. “Although you’ll want to take care of this, I imagine.”

“I do,” Rhys says carefully.

“Thought so. Good luck,” August says, squeezing once and letting go. “Keep me in mind if you decide to keep up the practice, hm?”

“I will.” Rhys draws his knees up and wraps his arm around them rather than reach out for August again. If he does, he might end up pulling August back into bed, and he can’t - he can’t let that happen. Not now.  Not with what’s waiting for him. August tosses him an awkward grin and leaves without another word, shutting the bedroom door gently behind him. Rhys rests his chin on his forearm and tries not to let himself shake too much.

His marque, _completed_. Rhys hadn’t thought to look for this, not so soon, and he has to hold himself very still to not throw on his clothes and bolt for the Temple of Naamah, but there’s one piece of business he needs to take care of first.

Rhys holds his breath and listens, and after a few seconds he hears the telltale _thump_ of the outer door to the Prince’s suite swinging closed. He counts to thirty, then sixty, then one hundred, before letting himself get out of bed and dress, listening all the while in case August forgot something and decided to double back. Nothing. Rhys scoops the pouch off the bedside table, weighing it in his hand for a moment again before tucking it carefully in an inside pocket of his embroidered coat.

He eases the bedroom door open, but the main sitting room remains empty.

_Guard rotations_. An idle comment - but exactly the kind of thing Rhys has been waiting for.

August’s desk is locked as always, but Rhys knows by now that August doesn’t actually carry the key on him; a few seconds rummaging on the highest shelf of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases reveals a small brass key, and in a matter of moments Rhys is carefully sorting through the mess of papers in the small roll top. There’s half-finished correspondence, a few theater programs, and then -

Rhys unrolls what turns out to be a map of the palace grounds, criss-crossed with scribbled patrol routes, check-in times, and pass phrases. It was clearly a working draft, but it’s easy to see the arrangement August had settled on. No doubt he copied it over onto a clean map to bring to the Captain of the Guard.

But it’s more than enough for Rhys.

He spends several minutes leaning over the parchment, eyes tracing over the inked-in scribbles, until he’s confident he can recreate it from memory. For a moment he contemplates copying it onto a blank sheet of paper and taking it with him, but if he’s caught with it -

He’s not going straight home. Better not to take that chance.

Rhys lets the map roll back up, restoring the desk’s contents to their previous haphazard arrangement. When he’s satisfied there’s no trace of his investigation, he locks the desk and replaces the key. He’s lucky, Rhys supposes as he lets himself out of the Prince’s apartments, that August decided to make his gift today. This way Rhys has an excuse if anyone asks why his hand is shaking.

And it’s not exactly a lie, either. It’s just not the whole truth.

* * *

Jack won’t worry if he’s not home until late in the day, so Rhys wastes no time in heading straight for the Temple of Naamah. Ilona isn’t available when he gets there, but Rhys had half expected that - he hadn’t made arrangements ahead of time, after all, and while an artist might clear her schedule for Kushiel’s Chosen, he doesn’t expect her to leave the client she’s with.

That doesn’t stop him from pacing his assigned room impatiently, until an acolyte pointedly offers him the use of the Temple bathing facilities. Rhys stops, looking down at himself; he’d left the Prince’s apartments in a hurry, and he looks it. A bath is probably a good idea.

The warm scented water is soothing, and it helps him focus, until the nervous swirl in his stomach calms and narrows to a single _thrum_ of anticipation. By the time he returns to his room, wrapped in a fresh robe, Ilona is waiting for him, sitting next to her work table, one leg crossed over the other.

“Does the Duc know you’re here?” She asks without preamble, hands clasped around one knee. Her tools are spread out beside her, ready to be used, but the inks are still stoppered.

“No.” Rhys knew this might be a sticking point. “But a Servant of Naamah may use a patron-gift toward their marque if they wish.” He fishes the pouch of his coat pocket; it _clinks_ heavily as he places it in her waiting palm.

Ilona opens it and spills the contents into her other hand. The coins are bright and newly minted, the royal seal pressed sharp upon them. She raises her eyebrows at Rhys but he holds her gaze, saying nothing; it’s no secret where he spent the night, where he’s been spending much of his time lately, but a Servant of Naamah is expected to be circumspect, even among the keepers of her temple. Ilona knows as much; after a moment she shrugs and tips the coins back into the bag, setting it aside.

“Do you wish to call for him?” She says as she begins to mix the inks she’ll need, a bright vibrant blue forming in her dish. Rhys shrugs the robe off of his shoulders, leaving the sash cinched so it hangs around his waist.

“No.” Rhys climbs up onto the table, settling into the familiar position. “I’ve made arrangements for a carriage when we’re done.” Ilona raises her eyebrows again but she doesn’t comment further, and as the first sting of the needle sets his arm tingling Rhys closes his eyes.

It’s - more difficult, without Jack’s steadying hand on the back of his neck; he had been at every one of Rhys’ marque sessions, an anchoring presence holding Rhys steady in a sea of sensation. Without that, it’s easy to get lost in pinprick after tiny pinprick, until his toes are tingling, until his very bones are humming. Rhys concentrates on the fireworks behind his eyelids and on holding still; every time he moves makes the session longer as Ilona pauses and waits for him to stop, and as pleasurable as this is Rhys has something more important waiting for him.

“ _Rhys.”_ From the sound of Ilona’s voice it may not be the first time he’s said it, so he struggles to raise his eyelids, heavy with lethargy and contentment. She’s cleaning her instruments and re-stoppering bottles, but her eyes are intent on him. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” he answers without thinking, and her mouth quirks upward. “Why did you stop?”

“It’s finished,” she says. “Do you want to see?”

Rhys’s eyes go wide and he sucks in a breath. He pushes himself up - or tries, but his arm is sore and tender and Ilona moves forward to catch his shoulders, easing him upright. Rhys breathes carefully as the room spins and settles, and looks down at his arm.

It’s beautiful work; the pattern runs the entire length of his arm, geometric in places and organic in others but never repeating itself. Rhys turns his palm upward to admire the work over his wrist, and the flex on his arm makes him gasp, biting his lip. Ilona catches his arm, wrapping the new work swiftly in a fresh bandage; that helps, the steady pressure something Rhys can acknowledge and set aside, although he’s vaguely regretful as the design is covered up. He wants it to heal properly, though, and he flexes his fingers again, smiling at the faint twinge in his forearm.

Ilona is watching him carefully. “Are you sure you don’t want to call for him?” There’s no doubt who she means.

“No,” Rhys says quickly, then more firmly. “No. I want it to be a surprise.”

“That’s your business, I suppose,” Ilona murmurs, and there’s something in her tone that makes Rhys look up, but her face is blank and professional when he focuses on her face. “Allow me to accompany you to your carriage, at least.”

Rhys accepts her help gratefully, allowing her to dress him and leaning on her arm as she leads him out of the Temple. He can feel the eyes of the priests and acolytes on him as he puts one foot in front of the other toward the door, but more important is the thing that’s calling him home. The room is spinning again but he can almost feel the direction Jack’s estate lies in, a bright spot in a city full of vague outlines. As Ilona settles him in the carriage he sinks back into the cushions, closing his eyes again until he feels pressure on his palm.

“Love as thou wilt,” Ilona says, laying his hand back in his lap. She steps back and closes the carriage door, nodding to the driver. She looks back at Rhys as the carriage pulls away, and just before she leaves his sight Rhys hears her say “Good luck.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

The ride home clears his head somewhat, and Rhys finds Jack in his study, alone for once, poring over ledgers and bills of sale. An estate the size of Jack’s doesn’t run itself; Rhys wonders if he himself is marked down neatly on a line in there somewhere, his debt balanced against his income. Rhys shivers as he shuts the door behind him, imagining that debt crossed out.

Jack looks up and flashes him a grin, closing the ledger and setting it aside. “Welcome back. How was his Highness?” He leans back in his chair, propping his face on one hand and watching Rhys cross the room with hooded eyes.

“He’s fine.” August is the last person Rhys wants to talk about right now. “I brought you something. Three things,” he corrects himself as he settles into one of the chairs before Jack’s desk. “May I -” he gestures at some loose sheets of parchment as Jack raises his eyebrows.

“Three things? Sure, sure - I can’t wait to see this,” he says, leaning forward as Rhys starts sketching, recreating the lines of the map he had found in August’s desk. He can hear the sharp inhale from across the desk as the lines of the palace become clear, and it sounds like Jack stops breathing altogether when Rhys adds in the patrol routes and pass phrases. When Rhys is finished he drops the pen and turns the map around, pushing it across the table; Jack drags it toward him, eyes drinking in the details greedily. His eyes are dark when he lifts them back to Rhys’.

“Where did you find this?” he says, low and husky, and Rhys rolls his shoulders.

“Apparently the Prince doesn’t mind leaving his favorite alone in his quarters. Which brings me to the second part.” Rhys swallows because despite his haste to get here, this is the part he’s unsure of. “The Prince is generous with his favorites.”

Jack stills. “How generous?”

“Very. Enough.” For the second time in a day Rhys’ words fail him, so instead he reaches inside his coat, pulling out the pouch August had given him - lighter from Ilona’s fee, but still more than enough. He reaches out to set it in front of Jack, the motion extending his wrist out from its sleeve.

Jack’s hand snakes up to catch at Rhys’ wrist, and Rhys gasps, dropping the bag. It _clinks_ as it lands in front of Jack, but Jack pays it no mind, eyes fixed on the bandage peeking out from underneath the cuff of Rhys’ coat.

“You said there were three things,” Jack says quietly, hand tight on Rhys’ wrist. His eyes are darker than Rhys has ever seen them _._

“That was the second.” Rhys nods at the bag on the table, unable to look away. He flexes his wrist in Jack’s grip. “This is the third.”

“You said that when my marque was completed I could make my own choices,” Rhys says quietly as Jack peels back the edge of the bandage to reveal the bright blue ink. “And this - this is my choice.”

Jack presses the bandage gently back down and carefully releases Rhys’ wrist. He sits back in his chair, hands pressed together in front of his mouth, and Rhys wants them back on his skin, wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

Jack lifts his eyes back to Rhys’, and they _burn_.

“Come here,” he says, gesturing, and Rhys nearly trips over himself in his haste to comply. He rounds the desk, knees suddenly weak, and stands in front of Jack, who is watching him carefully.

“On your knees,” he says softly, and Rhys’ knees hit the carpet almost before Jack has finished speaking.

His heart pounds in his chest even as his breathing slows, and as Jack leans forward it feels like the world narrows, like Jack is the only source of light in the room. Jack threads one hand through Rhys’ hair, fisting his hand and pulling until Rhys’ neck is stretched backward at an angle that makes Rhys’ blood sing. He can’t breathe as deeply like this, and his lips part as Jack’s other hand settles lightly on his neck, thumb resting in the hollow of Rhys’ throat. Jack presses gently, and the moan that comes out of Rhys’ throat is thin and reedy and just as desperate as he feels.

 _This_ is what he’s been waiting for: for someone who knows what Rhys wants almost before he wants it. Even his best patrons, even Hugo and August have an edge that they’ll pull back from, sometimes without even realizing it. Rhys needs more; he needs someone who’s not afraid, who knows that he won’t break.

If Rhys did break, it would only ever be for Jack.

Jack’s lips on his are warm and sure and everything Rhys has ever wanted; he tries to surge forward into it but Jack’s hand in his hair keeps him in place. He moans at the sting on his scalp, knees shifting wider as Jack lifts his mouth away.

“I’m tempted to have you right here over my desk,” he says, half-smiling, and Rhys has never heard anything better in his life until, “but there’ll be time for that.” Rhys feels half-faint from the promise in that, breath coming shallow in his lungs. Jack stands, pulling Rhys along with him, and Rhys scrambles to follow. He sways a little on his feet when Jack releases his hair, his scalp tingling, hand coming up to catch at Jack’s sleeve for balance.

Jack’s hand slides down to the back of his neck, and Rhys exhales as it settles there, warm and tight and strong. Jack walks them out of the study, pausing to lock the door behind them, and down the hall, hand never leaving the back of Rhys’ neck. It’s only a short distance but Rhys remembers none of it, his world narrowed down to Jack’s grip on him, sure and solid.

When the door to Jack’s bedroom _clicks_ shut behind them, Jack lets go and Rhys gasps as if surfacing from deep water, world swimming back into focus. He turns to face Jack but Jack is already pressing up against him, nosing up the side of his neck, hands on Rhys’ hips guiding him back toward the bed.

Rhys’s hips hit the mattress and without missing a beat Jack slides his hands down the back of Rhys’ thighs, lifting him onto the bed and finding Rhys’ mouth with his own again. He steps into the space between Rhys’ legs and Rhys wraps his arm and legs around Jack’s body, pulling him even closer.

Jack pulls back, ignoring Rhys’ plaintive noise and planting a hand on Rhys’ chest.

“On your back,” he says, voice low and gravelly, and Rhys scrambles to comply. He shoves himself back up the bed until he can settle against the pillows, and Jack grins as he pulls off his boots and climbs up after him.

Jack carefully removes each of Rhys’ slippers and settles over his legs, one knee on either side of Rhys’ thighs. He runs his hands up Rhys’ stomach and chest, over Rhys’ tunic, and Rhys reaches out but Jack grabs his hand.

“No,” he says, pressing Rhys’ hand into the pillow over Rhys’ head. “I’ll tell you when you can touch.” Rhys’ entire body trembles and his hand flexes at that; at the thought of being held down and fucked but unable to touch back, except at Jack’s direction. At Jack’s _permission_.

Jack is watching him knowingly, a smile pulling at his lips, so Rhys licks his lips and nods. His hand flexes again when Jack lets go, but he leaves his arm where it is and Jack nods approvingly as he sits back.

“Good boy.” He leans over and rummages through the drawer of the bedside table as the praise sings through Rhys’ body. “I think you’ll like this next part.”

Jack sits back up, twirling a slim blade between his fingers. Rhys’ cock twitches in his trousers and Jack’s grin grows at the whine that escapes Rhys throat.

“Thought so.” Jack’s voice is filled with promise as he lowers the knife and Rhys closes his eyes.

The first kiss of the blade is cold against his skin, and Rhys tips his head back, hand fisting as the knife skims down his throat. There’s a slight tug against his collar, and then Jack pauses and makes a thoughtful noise.

Rhys opens his eyes just in time to see Jack pull the knife away. “Turn over,” he says, shifting back enough to allow Rhys to do so, and Rhys blinks but complies.

When he’s settled on his stomach, arm still propped obediently over his head, Jack’s weight presses against the back of his legs and Rhys shivers, thighs flexing. The mattress creaks slightly as Jack leans up, and Rhys closes his eyes as the knife settles lightly against the back of his neck. Jack drags it downward, and there’s a slight tug against the collar of Rhys’ tunic before the fabric splits against the fine edge of the blade. Jack drags the knife down Rhys’ spine, from shoulder blade to the small of his back, accompanied by the hiss of splitting fabric. When Jack pulls the knife away the shirt flutters to the side, and Rhys shivers as the cool air hits his back. Jack leans up and holds Rhys’ arm steady as he splits the sleeve, brushing the fabric aside until Rhys lies in the remains of his own tunic. He shivers, toes curling, as Jack skims his fingers down his bare back, following the curve of Rhys’ spine.

Then the knife is back, cool metal setting Rhys’ nerves afire, and Rhys turns his face into the pillow to stifle his moan as the point scores into his skin; not enough to break it, Rhys thinks dizzily, but enough to leave a mark, enough that Rhys can look in the mirror later and see Jack’s touch in raised lines against his flesh. Jack moves the knife slowly and deliberately, dragging lines of fire in a pattern Rhys can’t make out against his back, until Rhys’ hips are jerking against the mattress, cock desperate for some kind of attention, and the pillow underneath his face is wet. When Jack finally lifts the knife away, Rhys has to bite back a sob, and Jack chuckles, hand pressing between Rhys’ shoulder blades.

“You are so perfectly made,” he says warmly, and Rhys has to close his eyes against what that does to him.

Jack prepares him slowly but just this side of not enough, so that Rhys’ half-formed pleas fall off into a ragged gasp at the _stretch_ when Jack finally pushes in. It’s fierce and overwhelming and everything that Rhys has ever wanted. When Jack shifts Rhys’ hips up, Rhys moans; when Jack rakes blunt fingernails over the welts on his back, Rhys _screams_.

“C’mon, Rhys,” Jack murmurs, shifting again, and the new angle sends lightning up Rhys’ spine with every thrust. “Come for me, just like this, I know you can.”

“I -” Rhys shakes his head, because he doesn’t want this to end, and he’s close but he doesn’t know if he can without help -

“Rhys.” Jack’s voice is stern and uncompromising and wraps barbs around Rhys’ soul. “I said - _come_.”

And just like that Rhys does, like he’s been waiting for the command, like he was made to do it. His body tightens up and his hand clenches in the pillow; he _sobs_ , and even to himself it sounds suspiciously like Jack’s name.

Jack swears behind him, hands tightening on Rhys’ hips as his body wrings tight around Jack’s cock. He leans forward, pressing his entire weight against Rhys’ back as his own thrusts grow erratic. It’s a little hard to breathe but Rhys wouldn’t trade it for _anything_ , not with Jack’s weight pinning him to the mattress and and his teeth sharp on Rhys’ neck and his cock twitching as he spends his own release inside Rhys.

Jack lays there for a moment, breathing heavily in Rhys’ ear. Rhys shifts minutely underneath him, content under that warm weight, then reaches back in a panic - Jack hasn’t told him he can touch yet, but Rhys doesn’t want to lose that pressure, not yet.

Jack catches his hand. “Hey,” he says, laughter and satiation threaded through his voice, and Rhys relaxes as Jack pins his arm to his side. “I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

Rhys wakes in the middle of the night to a faint burning across his back, where Jack had scored his skin. He rolls his shoulders, trying to see if he can go back to sleep, but the faint itch persists, spiking every time he tries to close his eyes again.

Annoyed, he moves to roll out of bed, intending to find a cool cloth to soothe the itch - he has some salve in his room, but that’s too far to go at the moment - but he’s halted by Jack’s hand on his wrist and a sleepy grumble from the other side of the bed.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, leaning over and, greatly daring, pressing a kiss to the corner of Jack’s mouth. That seems to satisfy Jack and he releases Rhys’ wrist, drowsily turning his face back into his pillow. Rhys feels his face stretch in a smile as he makes his way to the attached washroom; as he pushes the door open, moonlight spills in and he blinks against the sudden brightness.

The moon is high in the cloudless sky as Rhys wets a cloth, illuminating the washroom nearly as bright as day. Rhys turns, peering over his shoulder to inspect his back in the mirror, but pauses before he applies the cloth.

He hadn’t been able to make out what Jack had been drawing last night; he had assumed it was a random pattern, meant to drive Rhys out of his mind; and it certainly had, but here in the silver moonlight the raised red lines resolve into a familiar pattern that Rhys has seen nearly every day of his life for the last ten years.

The _J_ and the _L_ curve together in a large flowing script; the outline around them is only briefly sketched out, but Rhys would recognize the shape of Jack’s crest anywhere.

Rhys reaches over his shoulder, but his fingers just barely graze the nearest line. He presses gently, savoring the faint burn on his skin.

Rhys tosses the cloth aside and makes his way back to Jack’s bed. He rolls his shoulders as he walks, feeling acutely every shift of muscle that sets the lines on his skin alight. He slides back into bed, settling on his stomach.

Jack’s arm settles loosely over his waist. “D’you find what you were looking for?” he mumbles sleepily.

“Yes,” Rhys replies, shifting and savoring the feel of Jack’s name etched into his skin. “I did.”

* * *

Rhys keeps his room down the hall across from Angel’s, but he spends his nights in Jack’s enormous bed. Angel smiles to see them together, more than Rhys had thought she might, although she adamantly does not wish to know the details. Only that Rhys is happy.

He is. More than he knows how to properly express.

He tries - tries to communicate in the press of his lips against Jack’s, still just as desperate as the first time, how much he needs this, how _right_ this feels. If Rhys is an instrument Jack is a maestro; where the others had learned to pick out a tune Jack can conduct a symphony with the press of his fingers against the delicate skin of Rhys’ throat and the whipcrack of command in his voice.

Rhys had offered, that first morning after, to keep seeing patrons if Jack wanted. If it would help. Jack had paused thoughtfully, clearly shifting through a mental register of Terre D'Ange nobility; but in the end he had merely pulled Rhys in for a kiss and a murmured “We’ll see.”

So not much changes, except that everything has; Rhys has the occasional assignation at Jack’s direction, but they become fewer and fewer as the weeks roll on. Jack has never been shy about putting his hands on Rhys in public before, but now he follows through with it at home, and Rhys is almost drunk on it. The map that Rhys had brought back has clearly accelerated Jack’s plans; Mesdames Kadam and Springs are more frequent visitors, and Monsieur Sauer takes up residence in the east wing. Rhys doesn’t have much of a head for military planning, and it’s still useful for him to have a plausible deniability, so he contents himself with the moments he has Jack to himself, when Jack presses him up against the bookcases and kisses him deeply or ties Rhys’ feet together and rubs his cock between Rhys’s thighs until Rhys begs to be fucked properly.

And so things continue, until one night when Rhys wakes up in Jack’s enormous bed and doesn’t know why.

A figure stands over him, indistinct in the darkness. At first he thinks it’s Jack, but there's the glint of a knife in its hand - and that doesn’t rule _out_ Jack, but Jack usually likes him to be awake first -

Then there’s movement from the other side of the bed and Jack is leaning over him with a knife in his _own_ hand, and there’s a flurry of movement and Rhys is hit with a spray of something warm just as he goes cold with fear.

Jack turns him over roughly as the assassin sinks gurgling to the floor, Jack’s face collapsing into relief before -

“ _Angel.”_

Then Jack’s up and out of the bed, grabbing a robe and _running_ for the door and Rhys scrambles after him, shrugging on shirt and pants. He makes it to Angel’s room just in time to see Jack slit another assassin’s throat from behind just outside the closed door. The wash of blood bathes Jack’s hands in red, and he drops the body and slams the door open.

Angel is sitting bolt-upright in bed, dark hair in disarray and sheets clasped to her chest - but she’s fine. The assassins hadn’t reached her. She’s _fine_.

Rhys leans against the wall as his knees grow weak.

Jack is a whirlwind, summoning the guards and personally leading the search, floor by floor, room by room.

They don’t find anyone else.

Monseiur Sauer - _Wilhelm_ , Rhys reminds himself - had taken charge of the bodies, rolling them up in the decorative rugs that line the hallway and hefting them easily over his shoulder, one at a time. He looks practiced at it; Rhys doesn’t know where they disappear to, nor does he particularly want to.

Later, after Jack has checked and double-checked all the exits and made _sure_ that Angel is alright, he retreats back to his bedroom, although privately Rhys thinks Jack is too on edge to sleep any more tonight.

He’s not exactly in the mood for sleeping, himself.

Jack had wiped his hands hastily on a towel, but there are still streaks of red on them and Rhys can’t stop staring. Jack moves toward a basin to wash them and Rhys puts a hand on his wrist.

“Don’t.”

Jack looks at him; it always feels like Jack can see straight through him, but whatever he sees tonight he keeps to himself, face strangely impassive as Rhys sinks to his knees in front of him, undoing his robe, pressing a kiss to the inside of Jack’s wrist, the crease where Jack’s hip meets his thigh. Jack’s cock is already stirring with interest as Rhys nuzzles it, keeping his eyes locked with Jack’s, and when Jack threads those red-stained hands through Rhys’ hair, Rhys can’t bite back a moan.

Jack knows him, knows him maybe better than Rhys knows himself, knows how to wield both pleasure and pain in ways that make Rhys’ body sing and his soul tremble. But _this_ \- this has nothing to do with being an _anguiset_ and everything to do with the fierce, possessive look on Jack’s face as he had murdered two men and the way the blood had run down his wrists, only wiped away as an afterthought. Jack rubs his thumb over Rhys’ cheek as Rhys takes Jack into his mouth, and Rhys’ eyes flutter as he imagines smears of red being left behind.

Jack is not a gentle man, although his shows of violence are not always on exhibition. Rhys can’t help the way he’s made, though, can’t help that pull that puts him on his knees for Jack, for the display of who Jack _is_ , behind the finery and the court manners and the practiced misdirection.

Rhys can’t help how he’s made; neither can Jack, and Rhys loves him for it.

Jack pulls him off of his cock and rubs a thumb over Rhys’ bottom lip. “Should have known that would get you going.” His eyes are dark and full of promise. “Let’s go back to bed.”

* * *

If the map had accelerated Jack’s plans, the assassination attempt sets them on fire. Wilhelm had reported that the two assassins had carried no insignia - but they _had_ both sported a darker shape on their cloaks, where the fabric had not been weathered by exposure to sun and the elements. A shape with a few threads hanging loose; where an insignia might have been torn off.

Rhys pauses in the hallway outside the Royal Conservatory, studying the shape of the royal crest on the banners that line the palace.

It’s nothing like proof. But the outline had matched the crest of the Royal House.

He can’t quite imagine August sending assassins - but maybe that’s fondness blinding him. He has no such illusions regarding Vallory; but after tonight, he supposes, it won’t matter anymore. One way or another.

Rhys doesn’t have a patron tonight; it’s a higher calling that has him pacing the halls of the Palace as the sun goes down. He’s a favorite at Court, though, and people have grown used to seeing him slip discreetly through the halls. He takes advantage of it now, walking sedately but with purpose, head held high and giving a small smile and a nod to those who acknowledge him.

For the first time it occurs to him how much and how little he knows of most of these people; more than acquaintances but not quite friends, a favored guest but not part of the inner circle. Whatever it is, whatever he is to them, the selfish part of him hopes that he’ll be able to hold on to it after tomorrow.

Rhys pauses in the portrait gallery,  looking up at Alessa’s portrait. Angel looks so much like her; eerily so, almost. Rhys had been too young to really know Alessa as Queen; he wonders if she’d approve of what he’s done for her daughter, for her daughter’s father. What he’s still going to do.

Rhys stands in front of the portrait of a woman he never knew for a long time.

When the palace has quieted around him and the moon is high, he makes his way down through the palace, following a circuitous route of servant’s hallways and side corridors and pausing at corners until the sounds of patrol pass him by. Eventually he arrives at a barely-used side-gate; one fitted only with a manual deadlock.

Rhys had oiled the hinges earlier in the week. Slipping the bolt open is easy; pushing the gate open takes less than a thought.

Rhys steps aside as the soldiers waiting on the other side file quietly in, splitting up as soon as they’re through the door and heading to their assigned locations. Some are headed for other entry points, some to ambush the watch, others to - Rhys stops thinking about it. He holds his breath and listens, but he hears no alarm, just the faint jingle of armor and weapons.

Rhys feels curiously untethered; he flexes his hand against his thigh and wonders why he doesn’t feel more worried, more _something_. Treason should be a heavy act; instead he feels light, as if he might float away at any second.

As the last of the soldiers disappear into the palace a single figure comes to stand in front of Rhys. Her hood is drawn up but Rhys recognizes Janessa, one of Jack’s household guards.

“Let’s go,” she says, and Rhys nods.

He follows her out the gate, pulling it shut behind them but leaving it unlocked. There’s no point in locking it, now. He accepts her help in mounting one of the two tethered horses, but when she turns her mount toward the edge of the city, toward Jack’s estate, Rhys hesitates.

He looks over his shoulder, and even from this back alley he can see the thirteen Temples towering above the city. In the evening light they seem to glow, lit from within by an uncountable number of lamps and candles.

Rhys find his eyes drawn unerringly to the Temple of Kushiel.

“Rhys,” Janessa hisses, coming up beside him. “We need to _leave_. We can’t be caught here.”

“We won’t be,” Rhys says, but he turns his mount to head toward the Temples. Janessa reaches out as if to catch at his bridle, but Rhys has been watching for that and catches her wrist, controlling his horse with his knees.

“I am going to the Temple,” he says, looking her straight in the eye. Her eyes flick between his and Rhys knows she’s looking at Kushiel’s mark.

Everyone does. Rhys might as well use it.

“I am going to the Temple,” he repeats, releasing her arm before she can break his wrist. He knees his mount into a walk. “You can accompany me or not. The choice is yours.” He gets half a block before he hears her hiss something under her breath and coax her mount into a jog to catch up.

He keeps expecting to hear something as he leaves the palace behind; some eruption of fighting, a sudden crash or raising of voices, _something_. Surely a coup can’t be silent. But if there’s anything to hear, he’s soon out of range as the Temple grows larger in front of him. Rhys dismounts at the base of the Temple steps, handing the reins to a waiting acolyte. He distantly hears Janessa follow suit behind him, but his attention is focused entirely ahead. The steps are many but they disappear beneath his feet until he’s pushing open the iron-bound doors - always lighter than they looked - and stepping inside.

The interior is hazy and incense-filled as always, and Rhys breathes deeply, hoping the smoke will settle in his lungs and ease the tightness there. A priest moves toward him, arms bare under his ceremonial vestments. His brows raise with recognition as he takes in Rhys’ face, then smooths into a blank professionalism as he gives a short bow and motions Rhys further in.

“ _All are equal before Kushiel’s justice,”_ the high priest had told him on his first visit. “ _As his Chosen, you carry his touch with you; but you will always find his mercy here, if you need it._ ”

Rhys follows the priest to the back of the Temple, where the statue of Kushiel waits, stone wings arched over the angel’s head and brushing the high vaulted ceiling. Rhys kneels before it, letting the priest help him remove his cloak and shirt. The tiny nubbins on the iron kneeler sink into his knees as he settles his weight, and he reaches up to clasp the loop of leather tethered to the base of the statue.

“What brings you in search of Kushiel’s mercy?” The ritual words are comforting; Rhys hears the sounds of a chest being opened behind him and the _swish_ of fine leather being drawn through a pair of hands.

“Something I have done,” Rhys says.

“Would you do it again?” Comes the response.

Rhys tightens his grip upon the handhold. “Yes.”

There’s the smallest pause before the ritual exchange completes. “Then meditate upon it and let Kushiel’s mercy wash through you.” There’s a singing in the air and Rhys closes his eyes just as the first blow stings against his shoulders.

Kushiel’s mercy is always within reach, if one has the strength to bear it.

The priest is skilled; there will be no lasting marks. There will barely even be welts, but it’s enough for Rhys to sink into, the heat from uncountable candles and the heavy press of incense a dull weight against the bright clarity of the lash. The priest has a firm hand, and as Rhys breathes through the burn he thinks this may be as close as he ever gets to prayer: that Jack and Angel will succeed, that they’ll make it through unharmed, that Rhys has done the right thing. Rhys sways with another strike, and another one; and then eventually the next doesn’t come and the sudden absence is more jarring than the initial blow.

Rhys presses his forehead to the base of the statue, the granite cool against his fevered forehead, and just breathes for a moment. He looks up, and although Kushiel’s face through the haze of incense and candle smoke is as impassive as ever, Rhys feels the smallest measure of peace.

Then there are cool hands on his shoulders, and a pair of acolytes help him up as he unpeels his fingers from the leather handhold. His legs are weak, the circulation cut off from too long kneeling, but his feet are already tingling with returning sensation as they maneuver him onto a nearby bench. Janessa hovers awkwardly nearby as the acolytes smooth salve over Rhys’ back. It’s hardly necessary - he’s always healed fast - but he appreciates even the impersonal touch against his skin.

The priest is at the door, conferring with a cloaked and hooded figure. As the figure turns and leaves, the door to the Temple swings wide, showing the Palace lit brilliantly, light pouring from every window and doorway.

Just before the door closes Rhys sees the purple and gold standard flutter to the ground, strings suddenly cut.

The priest turns and catches Rhys looking; he looks thoughtful, folding his hands in front of him before returning to stand in front of Rhys.

“It seems we have a new Queen,” he says.

Rhys says nothing.

The priest hums, but doesn’t press. “She has called for you. It’s best that you answer.”

“Of course.” Rhys stands, shakily at first, then with more assurance. He wonders if it’s really Angel who has called for him, or Jack.

He knows who he wants it to be. But now he wonders who it _should_ be.

* * *

“Where _is_ she?” Jack is snarling as Rhys pushes the door open. Jack paces the room like a caged animal, seemingly unable to sit still, while Angel and the others sit around a heavy oak table.

Wilhelm shrugs. “Does it matter?” There are red stains on his clothing Rhys is trying not to look too hard at. “She’s gone. We’ve got the son. Wherever she’s disappeared to, she won’t be back soon.”

“Yes. Yes, of course you’re right.” Jack shakes his head, hard, grin wide and toothy, mood seeming to rebound in moments. “I just can’t - I can’t believe we’re _here_ . I’ve been dreaming of this moment for _decades_ , and -” He catches sight of Rhys in the door and breaks off, distracted. “Rhys! There you are.” Jack strides over and grabs Rhys’ shirt, jerking him forward into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and the faint hint of blood. Rhys melts into it, the calm he’d found at the Temple heating until his blood hums with anticipation. It’s too soon when Jack pulls back a few scant inches, holding Rhys off when Rhys goes to follow him.

“Later,” Jack murmurs, and the dark current in his voice curls Rhys’ toes in his boots. “Promise.”

He pushes Rhys away abruptly, turning back toward the table and circling it again. “Where were you, anyway? Janessa was supposed to escort you somewhere safe.”

“She did,” Rhys says. “I went to the Temple of Kushiel.”

“Hm? Well at least you’re back now,” Jack says, already distracted by a map he’s found on the table. He grabs a nearby pen and marks something off with a flourish. “Ha! No more guard post there.”

Rhys glances around the table, but no one else seems to find Jack’s behavior remarkable; and it’s - it’s _not_ , really. Jack is often mercurial. He’s just rarely so distractible.

Or rather, Rhys thinks with a sinking sensation, he’s rarely so _indifferent._

Rhys settles at the table hesitantly, but no one tells him to leave. No one really talks to him, either though, and Rhys soon feels out of his depth. Plans for troop movements, plans for reconstruction, plans for rooting out Vallory’s supporters; Jack has so many plans, spilling from his lips almost faster than he can speak them. It’s a side of Jack that Rhys rarely sees, and while that raw, unbridled passion stirs something in Rhys’ chest, Jack barely glances his way, and Rhys can’t help the unease that spreads through him.

He’s worked so hard to give Jack everything he wants, and for the first time, Rhys realizes that he doesn’t know what the _after_ looks like.

Angel on the throne, yes. Jack beside her, certainly.

And Rhys?

Jack’s never spoken to Rhys about his role in the _after_ , and Rhys wonders with a sinking feeling if he even has one.

He spends the rest of the meeting only half-listening, and when the others push their chairs back to stand, Rhys follows suit slowly. Jack slides a hand across his shoulders as he passes, tugging him along absently, and despite the twinging in his back Rhys is about to follow gratefully when a slim hand on his wrist halts him in place. Jack’s arm slips off as Angel tugs Rhys back, and Jack looks over his shoulder, irritated.

“I need to speak with Rhys for a moment,” she says, looking at her father. “Alone.”

Jack shrugs, and steps quicker to catch up with Athena and Nisha, interjecting into their discussion of the night’s guard rotation. Rhys watches him go, trying not to despair over how _easily_ Jack had moved on.

“Sit,” Angel says, and he does, letting her tug him back down to the table. It’s easier to follow her direction than think about ghosting down the now-empty hall.

“You’ve never seen him like this, have you?” She says, and Rhys shrugs uncomfortably. He had thought - he had _thought_ that he knew Jack in all of the ways there were to know him. All of the important ones, at least.

“Give him time,” Angel says. She takes one of her hands in his; a familiar habit by now, and he curls his fingers around hers instinctively. “Have you ever heard the stories of the Scions of Kushiel?”

Rhys shakes his head, and Angel sighs. “Of course not. He _would_ leave that part out, wouldn’t he.”

“Kushiel has his Chosen,” Angel says, pushing the hair away from Rhys’ face over his left eye. “And he has his Scions. He feels the pull, I know he does,” and Rhys knows she’s not talking about Kushiel anymore.  “He can’t walk away any more than you could.”

Rhys squeezes her hand, suddenly exhausted. He _wants_ to believe her, he does -

“You’ll see,” Angel says, rising to kiss his brow before tugging him up and out of the chair. “Now let’s go see my kingdom, shall we?”

Rhys has to laugh at that. “Yes, Your Grace.”

They can’t, of course, not then; the Palace is on high alert, newly installed guards alert and ready to prove themselves, confused courtiers milling around in the lamplight. It was a surprisingly bloodless coup, Rhys learns. Although the Queen - the _former_ Queen - had escaped in the confusion, August had been surprised and is now under heavy guard in his quarters. Rhys wonders if he should visit; wonders what he would even say.

It’s hours still before Jack makes it back to the quarters he’s claimed for his own - the King’s quarters, no less - but when he does Jack fucks Rhys hard, furiously, heedless of the welts spreading across Rhys’ back, and it’s good, it’s _so_ good. Rhys clings to it, spread out across the push coverlet; he wraps his arms and legs around Jack, pulling him close, until Jack’s thrusts grow erratic and his hips jerk and grow still.

Jack falls asleep almost immediately after, still half draped over Rhys, and Rhys lays awake for a long time, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling and wondering if this will be the last time he ever sees it. 

* * *

On the day of Angel’s coronation the court is filled with shining, smiling people, and Rhys wonders how many among the glittering throng are her enemies.

He wants to help, but his position is more - _unstable_ , now. Since Jack and Angel took the palace, rumors have been flying, faster than they can be repeated, almost, and Rhys figures prominently in many.

_I heard he was keeping the Prince busy. Might have gone differently, otherwise._

_I heard the gates were unlocked. He had the run of the palace, practically; does anyone know who he was actually seeing that night?_

_He must have told Laurens something. How else did they know the guard rotation?_

And those are just the ones Rhys has _heard_. There are more, Rhys is certain. He’s gotten used to turning heads at Court; now he still draws eyes, but the whispers that follow in his wake are more furtive, the once admiring gazes now turned suspicious. Even now, standing shoulder to shoulder with Jack in the front row as Angel is anointed by all thirteen Temple heads, Rhys is acutely aware of the eyes trained on the back of his head, of the space the nobles are leaving around him and Jack.

A clear bell chimes, and Rhys draws his thoughts back just in time to see a priestess lowering the crown onto Angel’s head. As Angel stands and turns to face the court, the priestess steps back and Rhys recognizes the ceremonial robes of the Temple of Kushiel.

Unsubtle. Rhys sighs, even as he takes the knee with the crowd. He glances aside at Jack, but all he can see is a fierce, exultant pride and satisfaction, like all of his dreams have manifested and are settling into the throne, resplendent in blue and gold and jet-black hair.

“Rise,” Angel says. She sounds - regal, Rhys supposes, all uncertainty banished from her voice, like she knows that she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Rhys wishes he had her certainty.

Angel’s first order of business is, of course, August.

The Prince is escorted into the court room by a surprisingly large number of soldiers, although he walks in under his own power, and his hands are unbound. Angel had been very definite about that, Rhys remembers. She wanted to show respect; it hadn’t been August’s fault his mother was a usurper. Rhys isn’t sure August will see it that way, but the former Prince has been kept under a heavy guard. Rhys hasn’t had a chance to ask him; if he would even speak to Rhys in the first place.

August looks _tired_ , exhausted in a way that Rhys has never seen him, but he holds his head high in the middle of his escort and does not look at Rhys at all as he passes.

The twinge in Rhys’ chest rises until he’s afraid he’ll choke on it, watching the soldiers peel off until August stands alone in front of Angel. Jack’s hand comes up to rest on the small of his back and Rhys leans into it gratefully, desperate for any measure of comfort.

“Prince August,” Angel says gravely. She had been insistent about that, too - that August retain his title even under a new rule. Jack hadn’t understood, but Rhys thinks he does. “I will be brief; your mother’s rule has ended. Mine has begun. I will not strip you of your title, or your honors - if you are willing to swear your allegiance to the throne and relinquish your claim.”

Murmurs ripple through the court as August plants his feet and folds his arms. “And if I don’t?”

Angel nods as if she had expected this. “Then you choose exile. There is a delegation leaving for the Caerdicca Unitas tomorrow. They have room for one more traveler.”

“Exile.” August snorts. “Afraid to get your hands dirty?”

“Execution was an option,” Angel says dryly. “But there was an eloquent argument against it.” She looks significantly over August’s shoulder, and Rhys feels his cheeks burn as he’s pinned by both their gazes.

He doesn’t know if he can allow _eloquent_ \- desperate had been more like it. Vallory was gone, her supporters quieted if not extinct. August had been young, younger than Rhys when his mother had taken the throne. He shouldn’t have to pay for her crimes. Rhys knew his position wasn’t unbiased, but he didn’t think he could have lived with himself if he hadn’t _tried_.

Jack hadn’t understood, but Rhys thinks that Angel had.

Angel’s voice breaks the standoff. “Your choice, please,  August: allegiance or exile?”

August sneers, and turns his back on Rhys. Rhys tries to ignore the way his breath is coming short; he had always known it would come to this. This is the best way it could have ended, for them.

“Exile.” August’s voice rings out over the waiting crowd, and Angel nods.

“Exile,” she repeats, nodding to the guards, and Rhys tries to tell himself that what he feels is relief.

August refuses to look at Rhys as he leaves, and Jack’s arm shifts from Rhys’ back to the back of his neck. Jack squeezes, and Rhys blows out a breath, blinking against the traces of wetness in his eyes. Jack’s hand grounds him, heavy and strong, and when Rhys turns to look at him Jack’s eyes are steady and sure. Rhys closes his eyes and leans into him, and Jack lets him.

Rhys doesn’t care if the whole court is watching. He’s earned this.

“Now,” Angel says in ringing tones. “To other matters.”

Rhys opens his eyes and straightens again as Angel calls forward Wilhelm, Nisha, and Athena in turn. Wilhelm is appointed Commander of the Royal Armies; Nisha Captain of the Royal Guard. Athena is appointed to the position of Queensguard, and Rhys smiles as she kneels and swears her allegiance, taking her position at the foot of the dais immediately. He’s glad that Angel has such reliable support; she’s going to need it, and these three are more than capable.

Jack’s the next on the list for royal appointments, from what he remembers, so it comes as a complete surprise when Angel calls Rhys’ name instead.

He glances at Jack, unsure if he heard correctly, but Jack is frowning at Angel, and the court is looking at him expectantly, so Rhys swallows and steps forward, leaving the comforting warmth of Jack’s hand behind as he comes to stand alone in front of Angel’s throne.

“Rhys,” Angel’s face is sober as she addresses him, and the beginning curls of uncertainty start to ball in Rhys’ stomach. “You have been as a brother to me, and I will never forget that; nor will I forget the service you have done to aid the reclamation of my throne.”

“However,” she says, cutting through the murmurs of the court at the word _service_ , and the curls solidify into a ball of ice in Rhys’ gut. “I cannot ignore what you have done in the course of that service.”

“The Service of Naamah is a holy calling,” Angel says, and the court grows quiet. “What is exchanged or learned in the confidence of this service must never be repeated outside of the confines of that relationship.” The court is dead silent, and Rhys is afraid his heart is going to pound out of his chest. What is she _doing?_ “A breach of this confidence is an affront to Naamah, to this throne, to the very fabric of our society. I cannot let that stand.”

“I revoke your status as a Servant of Naamah. There is is a diplomatic envoy leaving for Aragonia in two days,” Angel says. “I suggest that you join them.” Rhys can barely hear her over the eruption of noise from the crowd; or maybe that’s the rushing in his ears. He can vaguely hear Jack’s outraged shout behind him, and seconds later a large hand comes down on his shoulder. Angel lifts her hand and the room quiets.

“Duc du Laurens,” Angel says, and the room hushes even more. “I come to you last.”

“You above all have done me a great service in restoring me to my rightful place,” Angel says, locking eyes with Jack. Rhys turns so he can see them both - the plan had been for Angel to name Jack a Royal Advisor, but she hadn’t said she was going to call on Rhys at _all_ -

“You did my mother a great service as well,” Angel says, and Rhys’ stomach clenches at the look on Jack’s face. “In her memory, I wish to restore you to your rightful place as the Ambassador to Aragonia.”

The murmurs are quieter this time, not nearly enough to distract from Angel’s voice when she says, “Do you accept?”

Rhys should be looking at Angel; she is his monarch, even if she has just effectively exiled him, and it is an insult to turn away. But he can’t look away from Jack’s face as emotion flicks over it, almost too fast to identify: anger; _rage_ , almost; calculation - Jack looks at Rhys, and the indecision on his face sets Rhys’ heart sinking.

This is the culmination of Jack’s ambitions; he’s spent decades working to put Angel on the throne. He won’t set that aside for anything; not for Aragonia, and not for Rhys.

Jack lifts his hand to run his thumb underneath Rhys’ left eye, and Rhys has to close his eyes against the regret on Jack’s face. He struggles to keep his breathing even, listening for Jack’s graceful refusal over the ringing in his ears.

He can almost hear the words in his head; which is why it takes him a moment to realize that what Jack actually says is “I accept.”

Rhys’ eyes fly open.

Jack’s not looking at him; he’s staring down his daughter, and the set of his jaw and the tightness in his shoulders tell Rhys that Jack is angry, deeply so, but - he said _yes_.

He’s going to Aragonia. With Rhys.

Rhys looks back at Angel, and she glances at him for a moment before looking back at Jack, and it’s the brief flicker of apology in her eyes that convinces Rhys this isn’t all some bizarre fever dream.

“Then I welcome your service,” Angel says, and Jack bows, pulling Rhys down with him when Rhys stands there dumbly.

“With your leave, Your Grace,” Jack says when he straightens, and there’s acid in his tone. “We have travel plans to make.” Angel nods regally, and Jack turns to leave, tugging Rhys after him. Rhys follows blindly in Jack’s wake; he doesn’t remember leaving the court, just following the grip of Jack’s hand strong on his wrist.

Out in the hallway Rhys heaves a gasping breath once away from the press of people. Jack drops Rhys’ wrist, flexing his hands for a moment before picking up one of the vases bracketing the door to the court and heaving it across the hall. The _crash_ of shattering pottery shocks Rhys back into himself a little as Jack stands there, breathing heavily.

“Did you know about this?” Jack says, his even tone belied by the tension in his shoulders as he crouches to pick up the largest pottery fragment. He turns back to Rhys, and the fire in his eyes sends shivers up Rhys’ spine even as he rushes to answer.

“No, of course I - do you think I would _ask_ for -” Rhys pauses as the memory of a forgotten conversation in Jack’s library comes to him, and Jack’s fingers tighten on the shard.

“She once asked me: if I had to choose, if I _had_ to -” Rhys says, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know what she meant at the time.”

Jack stills. “What was your answer?”

Rhys lifts his gaze from Jack’s hands to his face. How can Jack not _know_?

“You,” he answers helplessly. “It’s only _ever_ been you.”

Jack is silent for a long moment, then he tucks the shard of pottery into his jacket pocket.

“But you didn’t think to tell me,” he says, and the disappointment in his voice is sharper than any knife.

Rhys starts to protest - he didn’t _know_ to say anything - but Jack raises a hand and he falls silent.

“I’ll make the travel arrangements,” he says, boots crunching on the shattered vase as he strides down the hall past Rhys. “Wait for me in the ambassador’s quarters.”

“I can -” Rhys starts, and Jack turns, gripping Rhys’ chin and pulling him up on his toes.

“Wait. For me,” he says, voice seething with barely concealed rage, and Rhys swallows. He nods as best as he can, and Jack releases him, turning and stalking away.

Rhys touches his jaw, tracing over the imprint of Jack’s fingers, watching him go.

* * *

The ambassador’s apartments - already set aside for them; Angel had planned well - are decadently appointed, but Rhys can’t bring himself to enjoy them, drifting aimlessly from couch to chair to window seat, unable to sit still for more than a few moments.

It does give him some time to think, though, which means that he’s somewhat ready when the door opens and Angel sweeps in. She’s traded the heavy ornamental crown for a thin circlet, but she carries herself as if they weigh the same, spine very straight and head held carefully.

Maybe they do, to her.

Rhys rises as she enters and she waves him down. He sits awkwardly, glancing askance at the guard who shuts the door behind him, leaving them alone in the room.

“Are you sure you want to be alone with me?” He’s gratified when it doesn’t come out bitter at all.

Angel tsks. “You’re not a threat, you’re just - wayward,” she says wryly, settling into the chair across from him.

Rhys laughs shortly. “Don’t you mean _faithless_?”

Angel sighs and leans forward. “You and I both know that isn’t true. You’ve kept the faith that matters.” She reaches out and takes his hand and he curls his fingers into hers instinctively. “ _Love as thou wilt_. There is no higher calling.”

“But it’s not safe for you here,” she says, holding his hand fast when he might draw back. Rhys thinks about the rumors he’s heard, about the sidelong glances in the palace hallways. “Rhys, what you did, what he asked you to do -” She pauses. “I will never say you shouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t. But the people in this city don’t understand necessity as we do.”

“I understand that part,” Rhys says, squeezing her fingers in his, and he does. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me.”

Angel smiles, a little sadly. “Can’t you guess?”

“Jack.” Rhys blows out a breath. He had suspected; but he hadn’t _known._

“This reign is mine,” Angel says firmly. “I will not allow my father to rule through me. And he would try, you know he would,” she says as if Rhys is going to object.

Rhys doesn’t. He can’t.

Angel reaches up and pushes a stray lock of hair out of Rhys’ face. “My father is what he is. And you love that about him, and I love that you do, that you’ve found each other. But I’ve spent my entire life under his shadow. It’s time to stand on my own.”

“He will follow you anywhere. I know that, even if he doesn’t. And in a few years, who knows?” She smiles, smoothing his hair back. “In a few years, when he is older and wiser and has learned from his travels, Terre D'Ange will welcome her wayward son home with open arms.”

She rises, releasing his hand, and lays a gentle kiss on his forehead, from one friend to another, from sister to brother, from Queen to subject.

“Kushiel’s Chosen will always belong here,” she says, and Rhys can feel the truth of it in his bones. “The Court just needs time to heal. To move on.”

 _And so do you_ , Rhys thinks, but he doesn’t voice it, catching her hand again and pressing his lips to her knuckles.

“If you ever have need,” he murmurs. “Call for me and I will come.”

Angel smiles. She makes no promises, but she doesn’t need to. Rhys has made his, and that is enough.

 

* * *

Jack still hasn’t returned by the time the evening meal is delivered. It’s rich and sumptuous - clearly the kitchen staff is not perturbed by the change in leadership - but Rhys has little appetite for it, pushing the food around on his plate before pushing it aside entirely. He waits, but even after the meal has been cleared away, Jack fails to appear.

There’s an exquisite kind of torture in waiting; which might, Rhys supposes, be why Jack had done it. Eventually he falls into a light doze on the divan, waking to the sound of the suite door shutting.

He props himself and blinks against the warm evening light; Jack is standing in front of the door, arms folded, looking no different than he had this morning, except for the look of thoughtful consideration on his face, like he’s seeing Rhys for the very first time.

Jack takes one step forward, then another, until he can crouch in front of Rhys and fit their mouths together. The kiss is slow and gentle and although Rhys melts into it, when Jack pulls back he still has that thoughtful look on his face.

Jack stands and takes Rhys’ hand, leading him to the bedroom. Rhys follows eagerly, breath coming faster in anticipation of being thrown over the bed or pressed up against the door and fucked; but instead Jack closes the bedroom door behind them and takes Rhys’ face gently in both of his hands, kissing him with that same thorough deliberateness.

He undresses Rhys slowly, almost reverently, pressing him down on the mattress with a thoughtful care that makes Rhys’ skin itch for _more._ Jack pauses as he removes his own clothes, fishing out the shard of vase before shrugging off his long coat. The shard is placed carefully on the bedside table, right in Rhys’ line of vision, and Rhys’ mouth goes dry as he eyes the sharp lines, the fine point. When he looks back Jack is tugging off his boots, watching Rhys with a knowing, secretive grin.

He’s very - _thorough_ , drawing his hands slowly down Rhys’ chest but pulling away as Rhys tries to arch into it, stretching Rhys with careful fingers and generous amounts of salve until there’s barely any friction at all when he finally slides in. It’s gentle, _so_ gentle that Rhys thinks he might cry from frustration, writhing under Jack’s hands in an attempt to get Jack to pin him down, hold him in place, do _something_. But Jack gives like water, adjusting to whichever way Rhys shifts and thrusting into him with slow, careful movements that build heat in Rhys’ gut but offer no release. Rhys looks desperately over at the shard of vase on the bedside table. Maybe Jack’s forgotten about it -

“Would you like me to use that on you?” Jack’s voice is even, measured, but there are oceans behind it that Rhys could drown in, given the chance. He nods desperately, not trusting his voice, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.

“Hm.” Jack leans down and nudges Rhys’ chin up, laying a gentle kiss on the soft skin underneath. “No,” he says, and Rhys gasps, pulling Jack close as that edge of cruelty slices through him.

It’s good, of course it’s good - Jack’s hands on him are always good - but this gentle care is not what his soul craves. Rhys needs more, was made for more, and Jack is capable of more; but as Jack pulls back Rhys can see in his eyes and the lines of his face the _choice_ to hold back, and it’s that tender cruelty that pushes him over the edge, closing his eyes against the wetness in them and shaking apart in Jack’s arms.

Jack finishes shortly after, like he was waiting for Rhys, and after a brief moment to catch his breath he maneuvers them under the covers into the fresh sheets below. Rhys rolls close, pressing up against Jack’s side, half afraid he’ll be pushed away - but Jack makes room for him, settling an arm around his back and pulling him close, as if he’s just as desperate to touch. Rhys lays silent for a few minutes, head on Jack’s chest and Jack’s heart thudding underneath his ear, before the words become too much to hold in.

“It’s only _ever_ been you,” he says, pressing closer as if he can impress the importance into Jack’s skin. “Everything I did, everything I _am_ \- it’s always been for you.”

Jack is silent for a long moment, chest rising and falling underneath Rhys’ cheek, and then his hand seeks out Rhys’, threading their fingers together.

“I know,” he says, and Rhys can hear it in his chest. “I - I know,” he finished after a pause. Rhys looks up, because it sounded like there was something else there, but Jack raises his mouth to his, catching Rhys’ lower lip in a firm bite and following it with a soft press of lips. Rhys moans into Jack’s mouth, relief tingling down to his toes, because - they’ll be all right. They will be. Whatever else, they have this.

Rhys lays back his head back down, suddenly exhausted, letting his muscles relax and his breath even out. His eyelids have closed, heavy and leaden, and he’s on the edge of sleep when he hears Jack blow out a breath above him.

“Everything that I am,” Jack says, so softly Rhys isn’t sure he hasn’t dreamt it. “Yeah. Me too.”

* * *

The morning dawns bright and clear. A good omen, for those that believe in them; but Rhys has better things to believe in, these days.

Jack is arranging the final details with his chamberlain - some of the household will need to be packed up and shipped after them, but the residence itself will remain open for Angel’s use and Jack’s eventual return. Rhys shades his eyes with his hand and looks up, above the palace gates to the tallest spire, where a blue and gold standard is flying proud.

Angel will do fine. She has friends to call on if she needs them. And she’s proven herself capable of outmaneuvering Jack, so Rhys has no doubt the rest of the court will be putty in her hands.

He’s vaguely regretful that he won’t be around to see it, but then there’s a hand on his shoulder and he looks down to see Jack following his gaze, staring at the pennant. Jack’s face is wistful and regretful and still a little bit angry, but it’s fading. It will fade more with time.

Jack drops his gaze back to Rhys’ and shifts his hand to the back of Rhys’ neck. He squeezes, just a little too tight. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Rhys leans in until he can press his lips to Jack’s. When he pulls back Jack is smiling a little, like he can’t help it. Rhys smiles back.

“Ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [ThirtySixSaveFiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com)!


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